


Take the money and run

by girafe13



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: A lot of 90s references, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bar Fight, Criminal Activities, Drug Dealing, Fights, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marijuana, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Sexual Tension, Road Trips, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Swearing, like once and you can skip it, tags and rating will update as I post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girafe13/pseuds/girafe13
Summary: After being pulled out of the diamond job before it even happened, Mr. White and Mr. Orange find themselves on a drug-dealing road trip across the country. Can they learn to trust each other? With the long, empty roads ahead of them, will they be able to find one another?
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 75





	1. LOS ANGELES

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a wonderful prompt given by petitdejeune on Tumblr! Thank you so much for this wonderful idea! 
> 
> This story... Got out of hand... and is going to be 8 chapters or so... I've written a big chunk of it, and every chapter should come out once every week! 
> 
> Title from Steve Miller Band. English is not my first language. 
> 
> Enjoy!

** LOS ANGELES **




“You’re not doing it.” 

Larry almost drops his unlit cigarette on the ground.

“Excuse me?”

Nice Guy Eddie sighs, and repeats himself, his voice louder than necessary, his words carefully, almost comically pronounced. Larry suddenly wants to punch him in the face.

“I said- you are not doing the diamond heist next week.”

Surprise, then confusion. Larry wants to ask a lot of questions, but he’s a professional, so he only asks one.

“Why?”

Eddie frowns and grumbles, like he didn’t think Larry would ask any questions at all. Larry slowly lights his cigarette and waits.

“My dad wants you on another job. Said to tell you he was sorry.”

Eddie, for his part, doesn’t look sorry at all. A smug smile creeps up on his face.

“Said to tell you that since you took interest in the kid, and _he_ was not experienced, that you should go do the route together. Said he wants you across the country doing some drug dealing gig, just like old times.”

Larry drags a breath, savoring his first nicotine rush of the day. He winces under the raising sun, the gas station parking -anonymous enough for this _rendez-vous_ \- already burning under the heat.

“The route, uh? Same as usual?”

Nide Guy Eddie nods, his car keys already jiggling in his hands. He sits back up in his car, a luxurious old model bought with daddy’s money, no doubt.

“We’ll send you the merchandise two days from now. In the mean time, pack your bags and warn the kid. He’s in for a ride.”

Nice Guy Eddie disappears in a flash of a shit-eating grin and screeching wheels. Larry reaches in his back pocket and finds his sunglasses, puts them on before dragging from his cigarette once more.

He looks up at the sky and feels, for some reason, incredibly light.




As soon as he gets back to his motel, he fetches his small address book in the top drawer, next to the obligatory Bible. He finds Mr. Orange’s number and gets back outside immediately to call from an untraceable payphone.

Old habits die hard.

Mr. Orange answers at the fourth ring. “H-hello?” Larry hears, followed by a muffle yawn.

Larry frowns, looks at his watch. It’s not even 8 AM. Oh, well.

“Mr. Orange, it’s Mr. White. I’ll come and pick you up in 30 minutes. We have a lot to discuss”, he says, keeping his tone light, mindful of potential bugs and other listening devices.

“Oh- uhm… Yeah, alright, no problem”, Mr. Orange says, hesitant. Larry pictures him still in bed, white t-shirt and bed hair and all.

Larry says “See you there,’ and hangs up right after that.

Larry walks back in a hurry to his motel room, the sun pressing down on the back of his neck. It was going to be a hot one.




The dinner is not very crowded, especially a Tuesday morning after rush hour. Larry finds a seat easily, and motions to the waitress for two coffees while Mr. Orange sits down, his face still heavy with sleep.

Larry takes a good look at him. Mr. Orange is wearing a simple grey t-shirt and some shorts that are a little too short for Larry’s liking, maybe something he grabbed at the last minute. He can see Mr. Orange’s pale thighs, were the California sun never got to tan the tender skin there.

For his part, Larry wears one of his eternal Hawaiian shirt. Nothing says harmless like a middle-aged guy in a fucking Hawaiian shirt.

For a onlooker, they look just like two normal guys, grabbing a coffee on a Tuesday morning. Larry surprises himself thinking he wishes they would be just that.

Larry takes in the parking view they have while sitting this close to the window and waits until the waitress brings them their two cups before talking.

“So, we’re not doing it.”

Mr. Orange stops mid air while reaching for the sugar packets and blinks up at him, his eyes green and intense. He suddenly seems on alert, like a switch flipped on.

“What? Why?” he asks, outraged, and Larry can’t help himself and does a bad job hiding his smile.

“The boss wants us on the road. We’re leaving in two days for the route.”

Mr. Orange squints, then finally reaches for a sugar packet on the table.

“Like… delivery?” he asks once more, shaking the packet to loosen up the sugar.

“Yeah, kinda”.

Mr. Orange puts the whole thing in his coffee, stirs it up, drinks a sip before he speaks again.

“How far?”

Larry knew he liked this kid. He always asked the right questions.

“It’s an easy job, but one for endurance. We start here, in LA, obviously, and then we do Las Vegas, Santa Fe, maybe Roswell… Then hit up Texas, but mostly just passing through the big city,” Larry begins to enumerate, counting the stops on his fingers.

Mr. Orange whistles low, takes another sip of his coffee. “That’s a lot.”

“Wait, I’m not done,” Larry says, flashing a grin. “We cruise through Mississippi and Alabama to reach Florida, ditch the car there and catch a flight home.”

Larry finishes his sentence while shrugging, like a cross-country road trip with an almost-stranger to deal drugs is no biggie.

Mr. Orange opens his mouth, drags a breath, but the waitress cuts him short.

“So, what’ll be?” she asks, walking towards them, her tone jovial, but tired. 

“Another coffee for me and… Number three looks good”, Larry says while looking rapidly at the plasticized menu on the table.

“Uh- For me, number five and another coffee too.” Mr. Orange says in turn, pushing his dark blonde hair out of his eyes, and the waitress leaves without writing down their orders.

“So,” Mr. Orange says after a beat. “What, we just meet up with the right people and make our deliveries and… that’s it?” He sits back, put his arm back on the bright red seat and waves his hand. “Easy. Drugs is my thing, man.”

Larry shakes his head, smirking. “You really are new at this, uh? We also try to keep out of trouble.”

Mr. Orange rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. As if we’re gonna be in any trouble.”

“Oh, believe me, kid… We will most definitively be.”

4.

“What do you mean, no diamonds? What, they’re gonna send you halfway across the country for some bullshit drug deals?”

“I’m sorry Holdaway, they pulled the rug right under my feet.” Freddy sighs, scratching at his hair. “We end up in Florida.”

“Listen, man, Freddy. We already know this course, been watching it for years now, but I want you on it anyway. It’ll be a test, since you’re going to basically tag along Mr. White…Think of it as practice for undercover work.”

Freddy nods, catches himself, then says “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

“And take notes. Be sure nobody even sees you have a notebook, but write down the names, locations, contacts, everything. Might be useful after all…”

After a few other indications, Freddy hangs up the payphone. He closes his eyes, leans on the cabin. The sun is at high noon, and even though he just ate, he’s starving again.

He feels weirdly light on his feet as he drives up to the nearest burger joint and when the poor teenager asks him if he wants to double his portion of fries for a mere 50 cents, he says yes immediately.




They leave at 6 AM two days later, their car arriving in pristine condition in another unremarkable parking lot.

Their car is a nice, deep blue Honda Accord, invisible in the sea of others Honda Accord on the road. It’s perfect: air conditioning, electric windows and a brand-new radio.

Oh, and about 20 kilos of cocaine in the trunk, along with a few bags of weed and some other complementary products.

Really, it’s got everything.

“Ready?” asks Larry, eying up Mr. Orange.

They both took separate busses to get to the gas station, their travel bags fitting nicely in the back seat. Mr. Orange took the time to bring himself some snacks and is currently yawning away, his sunglasses barely hiding the dark circles under his eyes.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he finally answers.

He doesn’t even hesitate and slides himself in the passenger seat, and Larry takes a moment to breathe in and out before sitting behind the wheel, appreciating this moment of calm where the sun rises and his legs are not full of cramps – yet. He puts on his sunglasses, squints at the horizon and nods.

“Then, let’s go.”


	2. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter was written at the same time as the first one, so I figured... What the heck, let's give the people what they want! So here it is. 
> 
> TW for two or three gay slurs typical of the 90s... Sadly, not all drug dealers are as well behaved as our duo...
> 
> Again, sorry for any grammar mistakes, English is not my first language! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA**

1.

Mr. Orange falls asleep as soon as they hit the highway.

Larry keeps driving, as the sun rises and shines and the desert does not seem to want to end, an ocean of sand and desolated little towns as far as the eye can see. He enjoys this moment of silence, of solitude, almost, as he realizes that he is going to be stuck with Mr. Orange for a good part of the next few days, maybe even weeks or so. Drug dealing is not an easy and fun job. Anything could happen.

Larry sighs and lowers the sound of the radio. He did this route a few times before and if his memory serves him right, he had promised himself never to do it again.

Larry sneaks a peek at Mr. Orange before looking back at the road. The kid seems unphased, snoring lightly. His arms are crossed on his chest and his sunglasses are sliding on his nose. Larry then looks at the wing mirror and only sees their own dust fizzling out of view as the car devoures mile after mile.

After about three hours, Larry feels his body cramp up. He tries to push himself, tries to drive a little bit more. He knows they are close to Las Vegas, maybe an hour and a half away. Concentrating on the road, Larry does not notice Mr. Orange stirring up from his slumber.

“I need to pee.”

Larry jumps in his seat, then shoots a look at Mr. Orange.

“Well, well, well, look who decided to join us!” he exclaims, trying to calm his beating heart.

They stop at the next gas station and Larry takes a moment to stretch his poor limbs and buy a shitty rest stop coffee. After a pause, he buys a second one for Mr. Orange.

“You know, these things can kill ya,” Mr Orange says after sipping on his and immediately grimacing as he swallows.

Larry smirks. They are both in the shade of the gas station, the car cooling down slowly with a series of familiar clicks.

“It’s almost half-past nine. What do you say when we arrive in Las Vegas, we hit a little dinner and take a nap?” says Larry, unphased by the god-awful taste of the coffee. He’s had worst.

“Sure. When’s the deal, then?”

“Around 11 tonight. We have time to hit some casinos and maybe even see a show” Larry half jokes.

He feels tired already. God, he's too old for this.

Mr. Orange lights up. “Yeah, Mr. White, that’s what I’m talking about!”

The kid goes to bump him in the shoulder. Larry lets him, grinning.

While they were preparing for the diamond job, Larry spent all his time with Mr. Orange, showing him the ropes. He knows about his infectious smile and dry sens of humour, as well as his cheerfulness over pretty much any mundane thing. It's a breath of fresh air, if Larry is honest, because wroking alongside Mr. Blonde or even Mr. Pink would have make him crash the car on purpose after only one hour. 

“This is going to be fun! I’ve only been to Las Vegas only once or twice, only in passing.”

Larry gulps down the rest of his coffee and throws the cup in the garbage can with a perfect arc of his arm.

“Remember, you’re here to work,” he says, satisfied with his shot.

Mr. Orange tries and misses the garbage can by a few centimeters. He groans.

“Sure. But- why not combine business with pleasure?”

Larry follows him to the car. After a few steps, he tries to focus on something else than Mr. Orange’s label sticking very obviously out of his shirt collar.




They arrive at Las Vegas as the city wakes up for good, bustling with activity. Tourists, tired workers and criminals alike busying the streets of the city like ants in a puddle of a melted popsicle.

Mr Orange gawks and awes and Larry can’t help himself but to laugh. The kid’s enthusiasm is indeed contagious, and Larry has to recognize that Las Vegas is, all in all, very impressive.

“No way, Celine Dion is doing a show!” exclaims Mr. Orange, laughing and pointing at a huge billboard. “If my mom could see this…”

He gets quiet as they pass the colossal hotels: _Bellagio_ , _Ceaser’s Palace_ , _Venitian_ …

When they arrive at their little motel joint, it’s around 11 and Larry is starving.

“Early lunch?” he asks as he parks the car close to the main desk. Mr. Orange nods.

“Let’s ask for our rooms and see where we can eat.”

They make their way to the clerk, who is currently flipping through channels on a small tv prompted on the front desk.

“Welcome to Las Vegas, what can I do for you?” he asks in a flat tone, his greasy hair flopping down miserably on his equally greasy forehead.

Not once his eyes leave the television set. His uniform is wrinkled and his name tag doesn’t have anything written on it.

“We’d like two rooms, please” asks Larry nicely, because he, unlike _others_ , has manners.

The clerk must be at most 20 years old. He sighs and, with great effort, looks down at his big book.

“There’s 15 and 16 that are free- one double bed each room.”

“Perfect,” Larry says, nodding to himself.

He is glad to have a room to himself for the first night. It’s not that Mr. Orange is bad company, but… He would prefer to spend the night alone.

They take the keys and drop off their bags. The car is parked so that at any moment both of them can open the door and in three easy steps, be behind the wheel.

“I’ll see you out in 15 minutes?” Mr. Orange asks.

Larry nods before closing the door behind him and, with a grunt, sits heavily on the bed.

Mr. Orange’s label was still sticking out of his shirt.

Larry licks his lips and discovers that he wants a cigarette really bad. He lights up in smooth, practiced motions and watches as the smoke lazily makes its way outside, through the open window.

The room is anonymous enough, green covers and boring motel paintings on the wall. Larry sticks his cigarette in his mouth, gets up and goes for the first drawer of the night table. The Bible seem to be waiting for him, its glossy black front page silently judging him.

“At least some things are at their rightful places,” he says to the empty room.

He puts down his cigarette after awhile and closes the window. He makes sure the yellow curtains are drawn before stepping out.

When he turns around after locking his door, he sees Mr. Orange. The kid doesn’t seem to notice his presence as he seems deep in though, leaning on the car. He’s got a lit cigarette between his fingers, but he’s presently munching away at his thumb nail, sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar. Larry looks at his delicate profile, long nose and longer eyelashes that disappear behind cigarette smoke. His shirt label is, again, sticking out, scratching away at his neck.

Larry blinks and steps in, disturbing his companion’s train of thoughts.

“It’s driving me crazy. Your shirt label. It’s sticking out. Fix that, would ya?” he says grumpily as he slides into the driver’s seat.

Mr. Orange jumps and sputters. “My what? Oh, I- yeah, okay.”

He sits down in the passenger’s seat and fumbles for his label. Larry looks at him, looks at his fingers push down the label down inside the shirt. For some reason, Larry’s fingers tighten around the wheel.

‘Better now?” Mr. Orange asks.

“Much better," Larry lies. 




After lunch, the afternoon goes by quickly. Larry surprises himself by actually having fun.

The two of them go to a few casinos, Mr. Orange making a scene each time he wins something. They even play dice, Larry jokingly blowing on Mr. Orange’s dice before laughing when the kid loses half of everything on that particular play.

“You lose some, you win some” he says while patting his companion on the back a few times, trying to lessen the blow.

Mr. Orange only grumbles.

They spend another few hundreds on the machines and call it quits after an hour. They walk around aimlessly for awhile after that, going from mall to mall. Mr. Orange spots a men’s clothing shop that looks far too young and busy and drags Larry there. As soon as they enter, Mr. Orange tries his luck and puts a black cap backwards on Larry’s head. Larry sighs and removes it, putting it back as the younger man snickers away to find some new clothes.

A few minutes later and Mr. Orange has his arms full of his potential buys.

“What do you think of this one?” asks Mr. Orange, while browsing a button-down shirts section. The one he’s waving in front of Larry is dark green and matches the kid’s eyes perfectly.

Larry clears his throat, annoyed. “What do I know, I’m not a fucking stylist”.

Mr. Orange shrugs and puts in back on the rack. “Sorry, just trying to pass the time…”

Larry deflates immediately.

“Nah, it’s fine. I just though we could hit maybe a bar before going to the business meeting.”

After a few tries in the cabin, Mr. Orange settles on a few plain shirts, a pair of light blue jeans and a new pair of sports shoes.

“I didn’t bring a lot of stuff with me” he shrugs while paying.

Larry thinks of the dark green button-down and tries to connect the dots with the punk in the white t-shirt, dirty jeans and motor jacket in front of him.

“Mmh”, he answers, non committal.

Then, as they leave the store, Larry speaks up with a shit-eating grin plastered on his lips.

“Your choices surprised me, I always thought you dressed like a blind man.”

Mr. Orange’s easy laugher echoes in the mall.




10H30 PM.

They take the car and drive silently. The few beers Larry had during supper are gargling in his stomach. He is always nervous for the first dropout of the run.

The guy they are meeting calls himself “The King”, which is always a bad sign. Every time Joe Cabot deals with criminals that give themselves a ridiculous title, he had to wipe them out one way or the other, sooner or later.

Made a whole lot of cash too because of them.

They arrive ten minutes in advance, the abandoned factory close to the desert illuminated only by streetlamps and distant neon signs. They park the car so that if anything goes wrong, they can leave quickly. Leaning on the hood of the car, they get ready, guns loaded and ready, just in case.

Mr. Orange is breathing hard beside him, trying to occupy his hands with a cigarette. Larry lights him up, then does the same for his. Now that the car is parked, the silence is deafening. 

They wait.

Fifteen minutes after eleven, they hear tires screeching in the distance.

“Be ready, let me do the talking for this one and don’t say anything stupid,” whispers Larry to the kid.

Mr. Orange nods and Larry thinks, not for the first time since they left, that he really wishes he knew the kid’s name.

“The King” arrives in a flashy sports car, revving his engine and blasting rock music. The King himself is a gangly guy, pale and constantly smirking, army boots and dark, messy hair. His face looks like the one of an user, teeth askew and dark circles around his eyes.

“What’s up faggots?” he shouts as he parks his car a few places away. “Got my stuff?”

Larry feels Mr. Orange tense beside him. The guy is loud, obnoxious and completely unprofessional.

Just like Larry had imagined him.

“Got your stuff alright” Larry says, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground and walking slowly towards the trunk of his car.

"The King" gets out of his car, but lets the motor run. Larry can see two girls in their mid twenties in the back, giggling. He can also see another man on the passenger’s seat, gun in hand, looking relaxed. Larry is no fool, he’s seen this type of guy before. Half bodyguard, half scrounger.

Larry looks at Mr. Orange. His own bodyguard looks out of place, lean and pale under the streetlights. Larry reminds himself that they both have guns, tucked away in the back of their pants, and that this is just a routine drug deal, that nothing is going to go wrong.

He takes a breath and opens the trunk as "The King" struts towards them.

“Wow, would you look at that”, he exclaims, rubbing his hands together. “Good old cocaine.”

He takes the bag Larry hands him and motions for his associate for something. The second guy gets out of the car. Larry can see he’s counting money while walking, flipping through an impressive amount of cash. He hands a neat pile to his boss and takes a few steps backwards, his gun visible, tucked at the front in his belt.

 _"Douchebag"_ , thinks Larry. 

“Alright, faggots, that’ll do,” "The King" says, throwing the bag to his associate while handing the money to Larry. “Give my thanks to Cabot and tell him we’ll keep in touch.”

"The King" walks pass Larry, who keeps a professional stance. Mr. Orange is still tense and Larry can practically hear him gritting his teeth, but he does not move. Larry feels something close to pride bloom in his chest.

“We’ll do,” Larry says, already tired and ready for bed.

"The King" disappears as fast as he appeared, in a blurry of rock music and swear words. Larry closes the trunk with a dull thump.

“What a fucking idiot,” Mr. Orange states in the following silence, following the car with hard eyes until they can’t see it in the darkness. His shoulders are no longer tense and all nervous energy seem to have left him.

“What a stupid, fucking idiot,” Mr. Orange says again, raking a hand through his messy blonde hair.

Larry can’t help but agree.




“Come on, you can do it!” Larry shouts, taunting Mr. Orange.

Mr. Orange’s tongue is sticking out while he aims his dart on the board. He takes his shot.

“Ah, come on! Shit!” the kid complains when his dart misses the bull’s eye completely.

They are back at the bar they went for their supper. This time, their goal is not to pass the time, but to get properly wasted.

Larry laughs easy from his stool, leaning his elbow on the bar.

“I told ya! Told ya you couldn’t win against me!”

The kid comes and slumps down on his stool. “That’s not fair, you have way more experience than me,” he smirks before taking a swing at his beer.

Larry punches him in the arm and they both laugh again.

“So, what the hell was that, anyway” asks Mr. Orange after a while, leaning closer to Larry.

“Oh, _The King_ , you mean?” Larry asks, rolling his eyes.

The bar is so crowded, he’s not even worried that someone would hear them. They have to practically shout in each other’s ears to be able to understand each other.

“Stupid low life. New at the game.”

Mr. Orange leans in even closer. Larry takes another sip to have something else to look at than the kid’s deep, green eyes.

“Hey! I’m new at the game, but I’m not about to call perfect strangers _faggots_ …”

His tone is strangely somber. Larry, still without looking directly at him, bumps his shoulder with his. “Of course not, you got a great teacher to show you the ropes. And you got manners.”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t be fooled, not every transaction will be easy like this one… Some people go out there lookin’ for trouble, and if they don’t find it, they’ll sure as hell find a way to create it, got it?”

Mr. Orange nods and leans back from Larry's space.

Larry breathes out. He didn’t even realize he was holding onto a breath.




Sometime after one in the morning, Larry calls a taxi. They stumble back to their motel rooms, their car already parked right in front of Larry's room for security. The walk back is pleasant, the hot desert air cooling down fast as the night progresses. They can barely see the stars with all the lights from the city.

“Well, this is ridiculous,” Larry says, unable to contain himself as they arrive at their respective doors. “I can’t spend another few days calling you Mr. Orange, okay? That was for the diamonds.”

Mr. Orange is already halfway done unlocking his door, but he stops. He steps back to face Larry, who’s nervously spinning the key chain around his index finger.

“If you trust me, I trust you. We will spend a lot of time together and I need to know that you got my back, understand?” Larry adds, as the right words he was looking for sober magically spill from his mouth after a night of drinking.

Mr. Orange’s face is cast in shadows. Larry can only see part of his eyes and mouth. A few strands of his blonde hair is falling down on his cheeks.

A beat. Then-

“Okay. Yeah, I got your back, Mr. White,” the kid nods, his voice calm and controlled.

Larry puts his keys back in his pocket, and extends his hand: “Stop that bullshit. Hi. I’m Larry.”

Mr. Orange looks at his hand, then back at Larry and for a moment, Larry is scared. Scared that the kid is going to laugh at him, take off and rat him out to Joe Cabot. It’s an irrational and vulnerable feeling that does not visit Larry often.

But then Mr. Orange smiles, a big smile that illuminates his face. Larry doesn’t think he ever saw him smile like that, to anyone. His heart misses a beat.

“Hi, Larry, I’m Frederic. Freddy.”

Mr Oran- _Freddy_ then shakes his hand. His palm is warm and soft, the handshake firm, and Larry finds himself smiling back.

“Well there you go,” Larry says and he lets go of Freddy’s hand.

He gets his keys ready to open the door as Freddy enters his room.

“Sweet dreams, old man” Freddy says before closing the door, and Larry is left alone, on the doorway of his shitty motel room.

A simple memory of a smile is the last thing he thinks about before falling asleep that night.


	3. ARIZONA

**ARIZONA**

1\. 

It’s easy, really.

Larry is surprised how easy it is, thinking of Freddy as _Freddy_ in his head, and not _Mr. Orange_. Even though he spent weeks doing surveillance and showing him the ropes back in LA, his mind can’t seem to ever go back to _Mr. Orange_.

Freddy is a name that suits him well. Larry hopes he didn’t make a mistake trusting Freddy with _his_ name, but for some reason, his gut tells him he did the right thing. And he trusts his gut.

So, he trusts Freddy.

Right after they leave Las Vegas, Larry decides on a detour. Two hours later, he shakes Freddy awake. It’s half past nine and the spectacular view needs to be seen.

“Woha,” says Freddy as soon as he opens his eyes.

The Grand Canyon is open in front of them, enormous and infinite all at once. They park the car and walk a few minutes, every step bringing them closer and closer to the gigantic canyon.

Larry and Freddy spend a few minutes standing at the opening of it, gawking and taking it all in.

“This is… wow, I don’t even know what to say,” says Freddy, his voice rough with sleep, blinking repeatedly. 

“Then don’t say anything,” Larry answers easily, slapping him a few times on the back before making his way back to the car.

He waits for Freddy to catch up. He throws him the keys.

“Your turn to drive, I need some sleep.”

Freddy nods and gets behind the wheel.

Easy. So easy to trust him. Larry doesn’t usually let people drive him around. He likes being in control, especially for long distances. But…

But it’s also so _easy_ to let Freddy drive while he snores away in the back seat. How easy it is that they fall into some sort of routine, stopping when they need to stop, changing the music on the radio, talking about nothing during the long hours of travel.

Easiest thing Larry has ever done in his life.

He tries to not think about it too much, he really does. He tries to keep his eyes on the road and his mind on the job.

Easy.




Almost three hours later and they arrive in Phoenix, Arizona, the unbearable heat following them like a curse.

Larry drops off Freddy at the front desk of the motel joint they chose and waits for him patiently in the car. He looks at his companion as he walks, his jeans hanging low on his hips, his leather jacket long forgotten in the back seat of the Honda.

“They gave me two rooms that connect…” Freddy trails off when he comes back, his face twisted in an apology.

Larry says nothing, his eyes on Freddy.

“We could try somewhere else if you’d like-”

“No,” cuts Larry. “It’s fine. We’ll just keep the door closed.”

Freddy visibly relaxes, his shoulders easing down.

“I’m tired,” Larry adds. “Lets nap and wait for the deal.”

Freddy nods and gives him the room number. Larry parks the car and unloads, handing out Freddy’s bag as the other man arrives, lightly jogging.

The room is nice, almost identical to the one in Las Vegas. Larry has a strong sense of déjà vu, but he figures most motels look the same. He drops his bag on the mattress before laying down himself and closing his eyes.

He can hear the shower running from the other room. After a few minutes, Larry stands up and goes to the door that connects their two bedrooms. Meanwhile, he searches in his pockets and finds his pack of cigarette, a constant in his life. He lights up as he hears the water coming down, and smokes until he hears Freddy turn the shower off, his ear centimeters away from the door.




Larry gets woken up by the motel phone.

“Hullo?” he grunts, his eyes not even open yet.

“Hey, it’s Freddy.”

Larry’s blinks. “Hi.”

“Would you like a burger? I just woke up and I was hungry as hell, took the car for a spin.”

Larry rolls on his side, tries to wake up. “Sure. Extra tomatoes and pickles, and no mustard please.”

Freddy scoffs. “You like tomatoes? You weirdo.”

Larry has no time to interject that tomatoes are very good, thank you very much. Freddy has already hung up.

_Hey, it’s Freddy._

Easy as falling rain. Easy as a roller blades on a new patch of asphalt. Easy as a refreshing beer after a hot day.

_Hey, it’s Freddy._

Larry stands up and goes right into the shower. He scrubs every part of his body, washes his curly hair, and takes extra time to appreciate the decent water pressure. When he comes out, steam has built up in the bathroom.

After a few minutes, he can hear the car pull around. Next thing he knows, Freddy is knocking on their connected door.

“Room service,” Freddy jokes while poking his head through the doorway.

Larry is in simple black slacks and a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He doesn’t want ketchup on what he categorizes in his head as his “work uniform”, so he’ll put on the jacket later.

“Come on, sit down,” he says, sitting down himself at the small round table. “I’m starving.”

Freddy blinks at him, then steps into the room. He’s also dressed with black slacks and a white button-down shirt. His is wrinkled and looks like it was tossed at the bottom of his travel bag before leaving.

“Brought some food,” Freddy says needlessly, waving two bags of takeout in front of Larry.

They eat in enjoyable silence. At some point, Larry flips on the television and they watch a week-old baseball match.

“Oof- that hit the spot,” says Freddy as the crumples his napkin.

“Sure does, all those great tomatoes…”

Freddy’s tongue sticks out in disgust. Larry has time to see pink, and the wet trace it leaves on Freddy’s lips.

“You are a crazy man, for sure.”

Larry smirks. “At least, my shirt is not wrinkled to shit.”

Freddy raises his eyebrows at him. He then looks down at his torso, and pull at invisible threads.

“What? Come on, it’s not that bad…” he starts, but his expression is sheepish.

Larry laughs, all malice abandoning him, and before he thinks about it too hard, says “I’ll iron it if you want.”

Freddy looks at him, puzzled. Larry feels like he imagines it, but he thinks he sees the tip of Freddy’s ears go red.

“You sure?”

Larry forces a smile. Behind him, he can hear the baseball match, but the sounds are distorted, like it’s playing from miles away.

“Of course, come on, now.”

Larry stands up and goes to find the ironing board. “Can’t be looking all wrinkled for the deal. Gotta be professionals.”

He turns around, the board in hand, and he stops. Freddy is in his undershirt, a white t-shirt that clings to his torso and his biceps. He is looking at Larry from under a few strands of hair, his eyes attentive and prudent.

“Here,” says Larry, while unfolding the board. Freddy gives him his shirt and sits down, eyes still on Larry.

Larry finds the iron, plugs it in. The baseball match is over now, but none of them are looking at the athletes’ interviews. A tension has filled the air now, or so Larry feels. Freddy follows his every movement. Larry can see the younger man’s collarbones disappear into the collar of his t-shirt. He looks as Freddy bites his lower lip, looking suddenly very vulnerable.

“I never learnt how,’ he eventually confesses, and Larry wants to stick his head in the crook of his elbow and muffle his hair.

It takes him ten minutes tops to transform Freddy’s shirt into something presentable. When the younger man puts it back on, he seems to carry himself a little more upright.

“Thanks, Larry.”

“Of course. Now get your things, we’re leaving soon.”

The door closes on Freddy and only then Larry realizes he is gripping the iron handle. He lets go and waits as his knuckles turn back to their usual shade of pink.




The deal is supposed to be held in a bowling alley, of all places. Larry stuffs the bag of drugs with disgust down his jacket pocket. He was assured by his contact that there will be no security, and sure enough, they get in the miserable joint without any problems.

The bowling alleys are at the top of some creaky stairs. The walls are covered in mirrors that reflect multicolored Christmas lights, hung almost as high as the ceiling. Larry catches a glimpse of themselves as they go up, both in their suits, both looking intimidating and… A little bit dangerous.

_Good_ , Larry thinks, as he drags his eyes over to Freddy more specifically. The kid looks worried, but is doing a great job at hiding it. Something swells up in Larry’s throat and chest. Pride? Maybe.

He blinks back into focus as he arrives at the top of the stairs. Ten lanes of bowling and, surprisingly, four of them are taken. The music is very cheesy and the lights are even crazier than the ones in the staircase. A disco ball is hung up high as a last resort for flashy decoration.

Larry grunts in front of all this excess and takes out the little paper he knows by heart, just to be sure, and reads the alley number again.

He motions to Freddy alley number four. The two men walk slowly to their potential buyer.

A woman in her late thirties is sitting on the bench, sipping on a diet coke. An order of fries waits for her on the melamine table in front of her.

“Hello boys. Nice of you to join me,” she says, flashing them a grin.

She’s got short, messy red hair and a nose piercing. She’s dressed somberly, a tight suit that hugs her at all the right places. She looks like she knows what she’s doing. Larry likes her immediately.

“Hello. Are you Bianca?”

“Of course, who else,’ she answers, rolling her eyes.

She puts down her drink, punches in the computer, and gets up. Bianca grabs a ball and walks to the alley.

Two minutes and a strike later, she comes back to them. “Follow me,” she says, her bowling shoes clashing with her suit. 

Larry obliges and keeps Freddy on his six. The kid is attentive, relaxed, but alert. Larry’s stress settles. Something primal in his brain shuts down his anxiety. The oldest feeling in the world.

Someone has his back.

Bianca leads them in a back room, where she locks the door and demands to see the merchandise.

She puts everything on a small scale, and when satisfied, gives the right amount of money to Larry on the first try.

“Nice doing business with you, ma’am,” Larry says, and for the first time in a while, he really means it.

“What’s his deal,” Bianca asks in return, pointing to Freddy.

The whole exchange, Freddy has been nervously pacing the room, keeping an eye on the door and Bianca.

Freddy looks surprised to be called out so blatantly.

Larry laughs. “He’s new.”

Bianca adjusts her hair, smiling. “Ah… I see.”

She walks to Freddy and puts a teasing hand on his shoulder. She looks at him from below her long eyelashes, dark eyes hungry.

“If you want, I can show you the ropes…”

Larry’s laugh dies in his throat as his mouth forms a thin line. He watches Freddy’s face break into a smile.

“Lady, ropes are not welcomed in my bedroom. But thanks anyway,” he answers, gently pushing off Bianca’s hand from his shoulder.

Bianca blinks, then erupts in laughter. “Oh wow. He’s good.”

She turns around and opens the door for them to leave. “Gentlemen, goodbye.”

Larry blinks and breathes out. They leave the tiny room, back to the main attraction.

Bianca whistles a low note, and suddenly, every person in the different lanes gets up, or drops their bowling ball, or ditch the bowling shoes, and follow Bianca out of the bowling alley. At least a dozen people, walking away without even looking at their scores.

Bianca walks towards her order of fries, grabs one and shoots them a wink before disappearing into the crowd of her people.

Freddy sits down as soon as the last one walks down the stairs. He looks mystified.

“What the hell was that?” he points at the entrance, his expression of disbelief very clear on his face.

Larry huffs a laugh and pats him on the shoulder. He tries not to think that Bianca had put her hand there only a few minutes ago.

“A true professional, that’s what it was. Come on.”

Larry walks up to the guy behind the counter and slaps a twenty-dollar bill on the sticky surface. “Give me two pairs of size nine and two beers, please.”

The employee, unphased by all of this moving around, hands him everything he asked for, pocketing the twenty so fast, all Larry sees is a flash of green.

He calls Freddy, but the man is already behind him, eyebrows raised.

“Really, bowling?” he says.

Larry knows he tried to sound annoyed, but he can hear the underlying excitement in Freddy’s voice.

“Usually, when you finish a job, you get the hell outta here. Well, they did that for us, so I figured…While we’re here…” Larry trails off, shrugging.

They sit down at the first lane, punch in “White” and “Orange” and begin to play.

Freddy misses his first two turns.

“Those clown shoes are fucking ridiculous,” grumbles Freddy, appalled after yet another gutter.

“You need to just relax and let the ball do the work for you,” Larry says, loosening his tie.

He drapes his jacket over the back of his chair, rolls up his sleeves and goes to play his turn. Just before he does, he grabs Freddy by his sleeve. “Wait, I’ll show you.”

He hands the ball to Freddy, and grabs his shoulders, bringing him back in front of the lane.

“There. Line up your shoulder with the pin in the middle. Finish your movement, too, don’t half-ass it. And keep both of your eyes open, you fool. You’ll see better.”

Freddy nods along, leaning back a little as Larry shows him the pendulum arc with his arm.

Larry clears his throat as he realizes he’s pretty close to Freddy, now, his wider frame covering most of Freddy’s smaller body. They are pretty similar in height, but Larry recognizes that he’s had more burgers than Freddy in his days.

He drags his hand away from Freddy’s arm, involuntary feels the muscles there and how Freddy seems to focus on the game, ready to roll the ball. Their legs are almost intertwined, and Larry has to step away awkwardly before taking a real step backwards. His hands tingle and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t register his surrounding for a minute. All he hears is his own heartbeat. Sweat begins to pool at the small of his back.

Freddy walks up faster to the lane and follows Larry’s advice. The ball strikes all the pins.

Freddy whoops, and the spell is broken. Larry laughs and claps, the music rushing back to his ears like someone just pressed play.

“My turn now,” he says, grabbing another heavy ball and shooting his shot.

Strike. _Yes_.

“Apparently, clown shoes don’t define how good you are,” he says smugly as he walks past Freddy.

“ _Apparently_ , clown shoes only work for clowns,” shoots Freddy back, already laughing at his own joke.

Larry can’t stay mad long, as Freddy snickers for a good two minutes longer than necessary on his comeback.

“Wow, I’m sorry, didn’t know I was in the presence of a comedic genius, here,” Larry says without any heat, rolling his eyes.

Freddy wipes his tears, clearly enjoying himself.

They play well into the afternoon, and, by some miracle, Freddy almost beats Larry.

“If you miss this shot, I win,” Freddy singsongs, sprawled out on his chair. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” whispers Larry as he throws the ball.

Another strike. He wins.

“Who’s the clown now, uh?” he smugly asks, while Freddy laughs.

“Alright, alright, I quit. You win,” Freddy says, extending his hand towards Larry.

“Damn right I do,” Larry answers, gladly shaking Freddy’s hand, the younger man’s palm hot, dry and smooth. Freddy, so sure of himself, grinning at Larry like it is no big deal.

Larry feels like he’s going to do something stupid, so he releases his grip and turns around to grab his jacket and, without looking back, motions for Freddy to follow him.

Freddy follows.




They finally drive back to their motel rooms, only stopping to fill up the tank and grab some dinner.

Larry thinks back at Bianca, and tries to push away from the memory of Freddy’s arm tensing as he waited to roll the ball.

“You know, you could have gone with her,” Larry says, the streetlamps in front of him only beginning to turn on.

Freddy seems to think about who Larry is referring to, then shrugs. “Oh, Bianca? Wasn’t in the mood, I guess. Besides, we were working.”

Larry does not point out that technically, at the time, they were done working. He does not press on, does not add that Bianca was very attractive, in a “though girl” kind of way, and rather close to Freddy’s age.

They get back to their motel, the rest of their conversation easy and amicable. Larry can’t help but replay his question in his mind, wondering if he went too far, and then asking himself what he means by thinking that.

When Larry parks the car in front of the motel, he feels tired. He sighs, the engine still running.

“Want to go to a bar?”

Freddy, who had his hand on the handle, sits back down with a smile.




They get mostly drunk, then finish their night eating greasy fries in a burger joint parking lot, arguing over Jimmy Carson’s departure from _the Tonight Show_ and whether or not the Toronto’s Blue Jays had a chance at winning the Baseball World Cup.

Around three in the morning, they stumble back into the motel parking lot, laughing at nothing and mostly just bumping each other’s shoulders.

“Well, goodnight, then,” Larry says, at his door, still half laughing.

The motel is as classic as can be, with the long roof that protects the residents from any rain right up until the parking lot.

Crude lights illuminate the path to the ice machine, along with their tired faces. Larry knows he is getting too old to stay up that late, but time flies when he’s with Freddy.

“Goodnight, Larry,” says Freddy, “Thanks for today, it was… Fun.”

Larry can’t wipe his smile from his face in the safe darkness of his room.

He stays up until he sees the light in Freddy’s room go out and hears a sound like a body hitting the bed. He does the same soon after, savoring his last cigarette of the day, the ironing board still unfolded in the middle of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to kudo/comment, your feedback means so much to me! Thank you for reading! <3


	4. NEW MEXICO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is meaningless so here's another chapter!

**NEW MEXICO**

1\. 

Larry wakes up slowly the next day, his head heavy with regrets and a solid hangover.

“Ugh,” he groans as he stands up, looking for a glass of water and his emergency aspirins.

Larry opens his front window, pushing back the curtains. He spots Freddy immediately, his face hidden by the payphone’s cabin. He seems to be talking excitedly on the phone, waving his arms around as much as the walls of the cabin will allow him.

Larry squints. In his left hand, he can see a small notebook. Freddy stops his waving frequently enough to read from it.

A pit forms into Larry’s stomach. What is this notebook? Who is Freddy talking to? His girlfriend back home, maybe. Larry abruptly closes the curtains and goes back to his bed, thoughts spinning.

Larry has to make a quick decision. If he lets his doubt take over him, the next job could go poorly because of a lack of trust.

Besides, Larry _knows_ the kid. He knows there’s probably a very good explanation to what he is doing. Right?

When Freddy knocks on his door, ready to leave, Larry does not look at him. He opens the door and walks fast to the car, dumping his bag on the backseat and, without a word, slides in the driver’s seat.

“If you want, I can drive, I know you drank more than me last n-” Freddy starts, opening his car door but not sitting down.

“Who were you talking to, Freddy? On the phone. Who was it,” asks Larry, because he’s tired and can’t afford any doubt in his mind.

He needs to know that Freddy is on _his_ side.

Freddy’s face is unreadable, eyes intense as he sits in the car, slowly, deliberately, as to not frighten Larry.

Larry feels suddenly very far away from LA, from Joe Cabot. Backup is rare if you’re driving the route with a snitch, or an undercover member of a rival gang. Happened before to Larry, could happen again. Larry tenses up even more as the possibilities multiply in his mind.

“You really want to know?” asks somberly Freddy, and Larry’s heart lurches in his throat.

Before Larry can reach for his gun, Freddy smiles. It stops Larry dead in his track.

“I was talking to my mom. I forgot her birthday last week. Got an earful just now, sorry you witnessed that,” Freddy says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Larry blinks up at him a few times. Rolls his eyes. “Your own mother. Come on, kid.”

As he drives away, Larry counts to one hundred, then two hundred, before his adrenaline rush calms down. Freddy chats away happily beside him, oblivious, and the sky is the bluest blue Larry has ever seen.




The seven-hour drive to New Mexico is captured in snapshot in Larry’s mind.

Snap. Another anonymous dinner. Snap. Bathroom break in the middle of nowhere. Snap. Blue skies and enormous clouds, lazily cruising above them. Snap. Freddy snoring in the back seat, legs askew, face hidden by a baseball cap. Snap. A heated discussion about the movie _Alien 3_ , and how it ruined the franchise.

“You can’t just… Resurrect her, that’s fucking lazy writing,” argues Larry.

“But the movie _is_ bad! Why not enjoy it for the bad movie that it is?” Freddy answers, switching the radio until something comes up.

When Sophie B. Hawkins new hit comes on, Freddy claps. “Now, that’s a good song!”

Larry bursts out laughing. “Really? I can’t stand that song, it played too many damn times!”

Freddy is too busy singing to answer him. Larry steals a glance, his fingers loosely on the wheel.

Freddy looks… Young. Carefree. His sunglasses are pushed back on his head, he wears one of the shirts he bought back in Vegas and he’s smiling, happily going over the lyrics he doesn’t know. The sun illuminates him from the back, and for a moment, Larry can’t breathe, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“Woha, Larry, be careful!” Freddy suddenly says, pointing the road.

Larry swerves and comes back in the center, where the car _should_ be.

“Sorry. Was distracted by this stupid song,” he says, forcing a smile, looking straight ahead.

Freddy laughs in turn. When the song ends, Larry can still hear him sing the chorus low below his breath.




Larry wishes Freddy would shut up. Larry also wishes he, himself, would stop talking so damn much.

An hour or so before arriving, while Freddy is telling him the disastrous 89’ Christmas with his mom, where he forgot to bring all the sides ( _And so, al we had to eat was the damn turkey, dry as all hell, and wine. Larry, man, that night, baby Jesus was very disappointed in us, at least, that’s what my mom said all evening. But I swear, it was-_ ), Larry realizes with a growing feeling of uneasiness that he knows too much.

He knows too much about Freddy, and Freddy… Knows too much about _him_.

Larry knows that is not where the uneasiness comes from. It comes from the fact that Larry _doesn’t_ _care_. Can’t seem to bring himself to care.

They should have left it with their names. When this job is over, Freddy will be free to do whatever he wants, and repeat what he heard to anyone. Larry squints as the sun glares into his eyes and puts on his sunglasses.

It doesn’t help that Freddy is so _fucking_ funny. The kid really tickles his funny bone. He remembers being in the bar back in LA, meeting him for the first time with Cabot and son. He had to discreetly wipe away tears of laughter from the corner of his eyes, for God’s sake. Freddy’s crazy drug story played in his mind for about a week after that, and he would catch himself smiling whenever he thought about it.

So easily, he shared of himself. Still shares. And for the first time in a long time, Larry lets it happen.

_“Is that how trust feels?”_ he thinks as Freddy smiles at his own story, as he keeps spilling more and more of himself, and Larry listens, and answers, and _trusts_.

Larry clears his throat and focuses on the road, attentive to the signs and tries to keep between the lines.




They finally arrive at their motel in Roswell a few minutes after five. Larry wants nothing more than to take a shower and sleep a couple of hours before the deal. He parks the car in a hurry, eager to get some time alone to clean up and breathe.

“I’m sorry, we only have one room left.”

Larry blinks. The seven-hour drive has worn them down, Freddy sprawled out on a courtesy sofa in the small lobby. 

“Are you sure?” asks Larry, because he feels like he has to.

The employee shoots him an apologetic look.

“Yeah, we’re booked. There’s a new museum opening this week about UFOs and… Well, let’s just say that it can bring a certain type of crowd.”

Larry sighs. “UFOs, uh…”

Freddy speaks from behind him “Who cares, let’s just get the room and sleep it off. I need a shower.”

“That you do,” shoots back Larry without even turning around.

He hears Freddy scoff, and he smiles.

“We’ll take the room.”




Two queen sized beds. One bathroom. A small kitchen table and four chairs that do not match.

The room is dark and smells like cleaning products. Larry could not have wished for more.

Well, except for his own room, but this would have to do.

The night goes by quickly. They eat at a local restaurant, that Freddy chooses, and when Larry realizes it’s a UFO themed place, he almost leaves.

“Seriously?” he whispers to Freddy, looking at his companion with what he hopes is a menacing look.

Freddy hides behind his menu. Larry can hear him snicker.

Larry orders a burger and Freddy shakes his head. He orders the “UFO pizza”, which, when it arrives, has Freddy in stitches. Larry can’t help but to join in.

The pizza’s toppings are placed in such a way to resemble a cow being abducted by an alien vessel. It’s the most ridiculous thing Larry has ever seen in his life.

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” says Larry as Freddy begins to eat through his laughter.

They go back to shower and change, and when Larry steps out of the bathroom, clean and refreshed, he sees Freddy, ironing his white shirt.

“Gotta look professional,” Freddy says with a wink, vapor from the iron pearling on his brows and cheeks.

Larry is suddenly filled with such a strong emotion that he can’t name that he is forced to look down at his own luggage, trying to find something to distract him.

“You can go in the shower, I’ll finish the ironing,” he grumbles, just so he has something to say, still rummaging through his bag.

“Alright.”

Larry hears Freddy set down the iron and take a bundle of clothes on his bed. He hears him walk to the bathroom, close the door. After a few minutes, Larry can hear the water coming down the pipe. 

Larry realizes a that moment that he’s stills staring down his bag, immobile. He shakes his head, and goes to the ironing board.

Freddy did a good job with the shirts, but Larry can still see some creases here and there. He irons, thankful for the distraction.

When Freddy steps out of the bathroom, steam coming from behind him, his hair is wet and pushed back. It’s the first time Larry sees him like this.

Usually, Freddy sports a more disheveled look, loose strands falling in front of his eyes. Now, Larry can _see_ Freddy’s whole face. He can observe how the green from his eyes look more hazel under the crude light of the bathroom neon, how his eyelashes are long, so long, how _young_ he looks, biting his lower lip in worry as he makes his way to his own bag, talking to Larry about a missing sock.

It takes a moment for Larry to realize that Freddy is also shirtless, only wearing his black slacks. Larry drags in a sharp breath, almost a gasp. He has seen Freddy with a tight t-shirt before, but the image of him, walking casually around the room with his pants hanging low on his hips, of his shoulders rolling back to grab his bag, his collar bones catching the soft light from the night stand lamp, how Larry can still see the faint flush of rosy skin, exposed to hot water just moments before…

Larry blinks and, with great effort, reports back to his ironing.

“Are you sure you didn’t see my sock fall earlier?” asks Freddy from what seem a mile away.

“Uh?” says Larry, still focusing on the board.

_“So help me God, those shirts are going to be the most crisp they’ve ever been,_ ” he thinks furiously.

“My sock, I… Ah! There it is.”

Freddy walks right in front of Larry, and bends down to retrieve the runaway sock. All Larry can see when he stands back up is a single drop of water, running down from Freddy’s hair to his spine, then slowly, slowly rolling to his lower back, and then his hips, then-

“Here, your shirt,” says Larry abruptly, clanking the iron on the board and throwing Freddy’s shirt in his general direction.

“Wha- Oh! Uhm. Thanks, Larry,” says Freddy, grabbing his shirt mid air.

He sits down to put back his sock on his left feet, still in no apparent rush to get dressed more than that.

Larry turns around and puts his own shirt on top of his t-shirt, the heat from the iron still fresh on his skin. As soon as his hands are free, he pulls out his pack of cigarette and lights one up, hands almost shaking.

“I’m going outside,” he hears himself say.

Freddy does not have time to answer that he’s already halfway through the parking lot, lungs burning.

When he arrives at the end of his cigarette, he throws it away and immediately lights another.




The deal is conveniently held right behind a shady bar, so when the local dealer (a woman in her late forties, nails nicely done and with a bumper sticker that read: I BET JESUS WOULD HAVE USED HIS TURN SIGNAL) drives off with the drugs, Freddy points to the animated building.

“I’m buying, come on,” he says, already walking towards the bar.

Larry follows. “Can’t believe we sold drugs to a fucking soccer mom,” he says, scratching his head.

“Well, it takes a lot to handle kids,” jokes Freddy, holding the door for Larry.

The bar is crowded, but by a small miracle, they find a free pool table.

“Want to play?” asks Freddy when he comes back from the bar, two pints in hand.

“If you wanna lose, sure,” teases Larry, grinning in his glass.

Freddy gets the cues, a grin spreading on his face. Larry puts down carefully his pint, and stretches his arms.

“I bet ya $5 that I’ll win,” he says, feeling revigorated by his drink and the easy job that was the drug transfer.

Freddy hands him a cue. “Pfft. Make it $10.”

“Deal.”

Freddy carefully aligns the balls in the triangle rack, arranging them so that it faces Larry. He keeps his eyes on Freddy as the other man walks around the table, meticulously coding his cue with the blue chalk. Taking his time, the younger man gets in front of Larry, pushes his tie out of the way, bends over and places his cue so that it aligns with the first one.

He breaks.

Immediately, Larry knows he’s going to lose ten bucks.

The game goes well into the night, Larry defending himself better than he would have anticipated. Freddy and Larry take turns bringing back pints of beers and after the third one, Freddy even convinces Larry to do some shots with him.

“You got any? Kids, I mean,” asks Larry, feeling light and buzzed, remembering Freddy’s comment earlier.

Freddy takes a sip of his beer, and watches Larry play. “Nah. I don’t have anyone. Never really did.”

Larry misses his shot. His cue hits the side of the ball, sending it spinning. “Really?”

Freddy shrugs.

“I guess it never happened. Now move over, come on, I’m gonna take my shot.”

Larry gets out of the way, towards where his fourth pint is balancing on the table. “Swore I saw you with a wedding ring, though, the first time I saw you,” he says absentmindedly, his eyes on Freddy’s cue.

Out of the corner of his eye, Freddy freezes. Larry feels a pang in his chest, like he knew something was not quite right. His grip tightens on the cue.

“Oh yeah… Well, I was never married. She left two years ago. I guess I was feeling nostalgic.”

Larry frowns, surprised by all this honesty. He was not expecting this. Freddy looks vulnerable and sincere, still in position to shoot, but not making his move.

“What was her name?”

“Amanda. I had other partners before, but with her, marriage felt like the right thing to do. I guess I was wrong.”

Freddy breathes in, hits the no 6 and ricochets the dreaded no 8, almost pushing it in.

“Yeesh. Gotta be careful.”

Larry does not play immediately after. Instead, he gets close to Freddy and claps him a few times on the shoulder.

“It’s alright kid, you’ll find someone else,” Larry says, trying to be reassuring. “You’re still young.”

“Not getting younger though,” Freddy easily says, flashing a charming smile.

Larry laughs and forgets himself for a moment. He still has his hand on Freddy’s shoulder, and for a split second, all he can see is Freddy’s green eyes, freckled with gold.

The moment passes when suddenly, someone bumps into his back, pushing him violently forward, crashing into Freddy. They come tumbling down, barely touching the ground before getting back up, Larry gladly accepting a helping hand from Freddy.

He turns around, facing a man in his late thirties, drunk as all hell.

“Excuse me?” Larry asks, tapping the man on his shoulder.

“What the fuck, man,” exclaims Freddy, dusting himself off.

“This guy pushed me” says the drunk man, his words barely intelligible, his breath smelling of death and tequila.

The other man in question, a small blonde, nose bloodied, was pushing back his sleeves.

“This fucking faggot tripped and made me bleed. So, I pushed him. Simple, no? For a retard like you, must be easy enough to understand?”

Larry turns around towards Freddy. He can see the other man has frozen, a hard expression on his face.

“What did you say, idiot?” finally says Freddy.

Larry looks down at his suit. Ah, hell, he can always go dry clean it if needed.

“Don’t call me an idiot, fucker,” answers the blonde man, wiping his nose, his eyes now set on Freddy.

“Then don’t act like one, _idiot_ ,” chirps in Larry, because he can see where this is going, has seen it a million times before, and he doesn’t want Freddy alone in this fight.

The blonde man lurches forward, pushing the drunk man out of the way. Larry gets a good punch before Blondie can get to Freddy. The fight that ensues is messy, like every other fight Larry has been in.

Freddy dodges and tries for Blondie’s stomach, hitting hard once, twice, before Blondie swings at his left cheek. Larry wants to help, but is pushed back by none other than the drunk man. Larry lands a few punches before getting the wind knocked out of him, then feeling his eyebrow split with another blow.

Larry folds on himself, dodging a few other hits, then goes for the knees, effectively bringing the drunk man on the ground with a loud grunt. He stays there, hands raised in submission.

When he turns back, all Larry can see is Freddy, is knuckles bloodied, wrestling with Blondie, restraining and getting restrained at the same time. Before Larry can do anything, Freddy grunts and grabs Blondie by the shoulders, head butting him right on his broken nose. Blondie wails and drops Freddy, all his attention turned towards his face.

Larry has never been in a fight half hard. It’s a first.




They get kicked out of the bar pretty quickly after that, the barman and the two bouncers shoving them into the night’s fresh air. Larry can see Blondie spitting and cursing in their general direction while his friends carry him away. The drunk man is also pushed into a taxi that drives away in a hurry.

Half the bar is now in the parking lot, whistling and cheering while Larry and Freddy half walk half stumble towards the motel, a few blocks from here. The last thing Larry sees is the bouncer gathering everyone back inside like drunk sheep.

“Oh man, that was fun,” says Freddy, while bumping into Larry.

Larry drapes an arm around Freddy’s middle, helping him walk. Freddy immediately leans on him, his tie swung over his shoulder. The adrenaline still pumps in Larry’s veins, and as Freddy leans in more and more, he thinks that he could easily carry him in his arms the whole way.

“What a mess,” Larry says, trying to keep his face serious but failing, breaking down in laughter in the middle of the road.

“What a motherfuckin’ mess,” agrees Freddy before spitting blood on the ground.

Larry can smell Freddy, smells the blood, the beer, the sweat, but also his soap and his shampoo, remembers when Freddy got out of the shower shirtless in an almost too vivid flash. His hand that is not touching Freddy turns into a fist.

“Never finished that billiards game, though,” Freddy says after a while, in the parking lot of the motel. 

“We’ll have to have a rematch in the next town,” Larry suggests while fishing in his pockets for his keys.

“Absolutely.”

Before opening the door, Larry turns to his companion, taking him in, hands on his shoulders to keep him upright. Freddy has a cut on his left cheekbone, and a split lip, blood oozing from the wound. Freddy touches his right eye socket and hisses. It is slowly turning purple. Larry can’t look away.

“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” Larry says, and Freddy rolls his eyes. _No shit._

He must not look any better, as Larry discovers he can feel his heartbeat through his eyebrow. He can also feel blood slowly coating the side of his face, caking his hair as it makes its way to his chin.

“Come on, let’s get cleaned up,” he says, unlocking the door.

They enter the room, Larry helping Freddy sit on the bed. Freddy grunts, begins to untie his tie. When Larry comes back from the bathroom with their first aid kit, Freddy has neatly folded his jacket and his unbuttoning his shirt.

“Stop moving,” Larry says, sitting down besides him, soaking a cleansing wipe with rubbing alcohol. “This is gonna sting.”

Freddy winces as the cold liquid drags on his cheekbone. “Never got use to it,” he says, smiling through the pain.

“Show me your hands,” says Larry, and Freddy obliges easily, without hesitation, making something dark in Larry’s stomach turn.

His knuckles are also bloodied. Larry gets another wipe soaked in rubbing alcohol and swipes it delicately over Freddy’s hands.

It occurs to Larry all at once that it is very quiet in their room. The only light comes from the bathroom, bathing them in a crude light, casting shadows on Freddy’s face. His features are broken into sharp angles, and he only has one eye visible, his good eye. Larry tries to ignore Freddy’s gaze, concentrating on his wounds.

“Think the other guy’s nose is gonna be fine?” asks Freddy, smirking.

Larry finishes with Freddy’s knuckles and throws away the wipes. He takes his time to answer, still sitting very close to Freddy.

Larry reaches into his jacket, takes out his cigarette pack and fishes one out, presenting it to Freddy, filter first. The younger man accepts it gladly, slowly reaching for the cigarette with his mouth, dipping his head a few centimeters down, his bloodied bottom lip already starting to swell. Larry slides the cigarette between Freddy’s lips, and searches for his lighter. He can see the white filter coloring with Freddy’s blood, marking it like lipstick would.

“Kid, that fool’s nose is never going to be fine again,” he answers, finding his lighter in his slack’s pocket.

He lights Freddy’s cigarette and when the man has taken one or two puffs, he gets up, walks towards the freezer in the kitchen and searches for a small icepack.

“Here, for your eye,” he says, walking back.

His ribs are starting to hurt. Larry sits back down with a grunt, palping his sides.

Freddy takes the ice pack and puts it on his swollen eye with a small hiss, his face still hidden by the darkness.

“Thanks, Larry. And hey, thanks for having my back,” he adds after a pause, smiling around the cigarette.

“Of course,” answers Larry, smiling back.

Larry takes out one cigarette for himself, lights it up. They smoke in amicable silence, side by side, until Larry can’t stand the pressure from his brow.

He gets up, puts out his cigarette and grabs his pajamas, heading for the shower.

8.

Under the stream, he washes his head carefully with gentle soap, then when he’s out, disinfects it with yet another good dose of rubbing alcohol. When he’s done, he wipes the fog off the mirror and takes a good look at himself, turning his head from side to side.

Not the worst wound he’s ever had. At least, he doesn’t need stitches. Neither does Freddy.

He puts on his pajamas, a lose pair of soft cotton pants and a simple t-shirt, closes the bathroom light and steps in the room.

It’s fully dark now. All he can see is the last of the cigarette smoke lazily disappearing in the air, Freddy’s silhouette now only underlined by the streetlamps outside.

Freddy is laying down, all his clothes scattered on the carpet. Larry steps around them and closes the curtains, finding his way in the dark towards his bed.

He sets his watch on the nightstand, alongside Freddy’s, then slides into bed. He can still see a faint outline of Freddy’s silhouette, laying on his side to face him.

“Goodnight, Freddy,” Larry whispers into the dark.

“Goodnight Larry,” Freddy’s voice answers him from far away. Larry can feel the pull of sleep rapidly take him away, and he happily succumbs.

When Larry wakes up the next morning, they are still facing each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song by Sophie B. Hawkins is "Damn! I wish I was your lover", and you should def have a listen because it is amazing, chef kisses all around.
> 
> Don't forget to comment/kudo, feedback is the wing beneath my wings!!! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr : jim-bones-spock


	5. TEXAS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TW light cannabis use/drug use/mention - if you don't want to read that bit, you can just skip section 4)

**TEXAS**

Larry wakes up and groans. He takes a few seconds to blink away the setting sun, as Freddy, hands on the wheel, looks over to him.

“Your ribs again?” Freddy asks, his voice a little hoarse for lack of using.

Larry looks at his watch. He has been asleep for the better part of the five-hour drive to Texas.

“Nah, just old,” he breathes out while trying to find a comfortable position in the passenger’s seat, groaning. “Just my old bones and me.”

“And me,” adds Freddy, turning on the radio.

“And you, yes,” Larry laughs, as he realizes Freddy has been driving in total silence for the better part of the day, just so he wouldn’t be woken up by the radio.

Larry’s head still hurts from last night, his cut above his brow neatly hidden by a bandage. Freddy’s lip is still swollen, his left eye less purple than this morning. Freddy also had to patch himself with a small plaster on his cheek, making him look roughed up. Larry thinks that it was not a bad look for him at all.

Freddy fidgets with the knobs, his still raw-looking knuckles twisting alongside his finger, and finds Amy Grant singing _Baby, baby_. He lightly punches the wheel in victory, careful not to damage his hand even more.

“Oh, that’s what I’m talking about,” Freddy says, grinning.

Larry can’t help but to smile back. He feels like since they departed Los Angeles, he smiled more than during the last five years combined.

“ _Baby, baby, my tender love will flow from the bluest sky to the deepest ocean…_ ” sings Freddy, and Larry hums in turn.

Larry looks out the window and sees the city fast approaching. He lowers his window and looks up to see gigantic clouds, pink with the sun’s glow, illuminating the highway like it’s a painting. Larry whistles low, and nods to himself.

Not for the first time during their trip, Larry thinks that being pulled out of the diamond heist was the best thing that could have happened to him.




They arrive in Austin just in time for their deal, meeting at dusk in an abandoned part of the industrial district. While they drive to the address, Larry spots numerous American flags all over the town, draped over decorated houses, all in red, white and blue.

“Freddy. It’s the Fourth of July,” says Larry, incredulous as to how this small fact escaped him.

He kept a tight schedule, and has seen Freddy do the same in his little notebook. They didn’t have a choice, as the deals were planned weeks in advance. Seeing all the decorations and smelling the barbecues makes it real, even more real than just a date scribbled down on a piece of paper. Larry thinks about how he feels out of time, like it doesn't affect him, or Freddy, for that matter. It is like they've been travelling together for so long, time does not bound them anymore.

“Oh, yeah! You know what that means,” says Freddy while negotiating a left turn. “Fireworks!”

Larry hums and looks down at their schedule. They arrive at destination fifteen minutes early, just enough time for them to stretch their legs, load their guns for a worst-case scenario and prepare the drugs in the right quantity. The sky is a little bit darker, but not dark enough for streetlamps to go on. Summer is always kind with its light.

“You know, I never tried that stuff,” Larry says while packing some white powder, scrunching his nose. “Load of crap if you ask me.”

Freddy nods. “Yeah. Weed’s more my thing,” he says, winking.

Larry rolls his eyes. “Never saw you smoke something else than a cigarette.”

Freddy blinks and scoffs, checking his gun’s magazine. “I’m a professional, now, can’t be high on the job.”

“I guess tonight’s good as any night to cut lose, then. It’s America’s birthday after all,” says Larry before the thinks too hard about it.

Freddy shrugs, but before he can say anything else, three cars pull over their little patch of concrete, the looming shadow of an abandoned factory stretching far across the street.

Larry quickly produces an empty gym bag from the trunk and shoves all the smallest bags inside. He then lights a cigarette, leaning on the Honda.

Freddy stands to his left, crosses his arms, and observes as the three cars park in a semicircle. If they need to quickly escape, the car is now out of question. Larry exhales smoke as people get out of the cars, all seemingly in one motion. Larry almost wants to laugh. He has seen this display of power multiple times and is not impressed by it.

The men quickly disperse to make way to the boss, a tall, muscular woman, her short blonde hair slicked back on her head, eyes dangerous and stormy.

“You must be Mr. Cabot’s boys,” she says, while her men wait around her, immobile.

“That’s us,” answers Larry, flickering his cigarette butt on the ground. “You must be Carmen.”

He takes a few steps forward, the gym bag heavy in his left hand. Immediately, four men step up and circle Larry, all of them at least one foot taller than him.

“Hello boys,” Larry smiles. He hands the bag to one of them, and patiently waits.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Freddy uncross his arms, one hand resting on his hip, close to where his gun his hidden by his suit jacket.

The man brings the bag to Carmen, who looks inside, then nods. She snaps her fingers and a woman emerges from the car parked closer to the street, carrying a dark blue briefcase.

She walks slowly to Carmen, hands her the briefcase and disappears right back inside the car. Larry can still see her through the window, looking at Carmen. Her dark painted lips are parted, and she quickly readjusts her long brown hair so that they fall on her left shoulder.

Something in Larry’s stomach twists when he sees Carmen looking at the other woman right back. He can only see her profile, but he catches the exchanged look anyway. It’s a look he’s seen countless of times, in restaurants, on the street, at the theater. It’s a look couples give each other, when they want to reassure one another that yes, they are here and safe, and… In love. It’s a simple look, one to calm the other, one reserved for people who care deeply for each other.

Larry blinks and loses focus. It takes him a moment to realize that the same man that took the gym back is now handing him the briefcase, impatient before Larry’s distracted state.

“Thank you,” he says automatically, and steps back.

Only a few minutes have gone by, but it seems like an eternity to Larry. Carmen climbs back up in the car, beside the other woman, and as the bodyguards drive away, he swears he sees her kissing the brown-haired woman right on the lips.

“Wow,” says Freddy, a hand still on his gun oblivious to Larry’s internal conflict. “I was not expecting that.”

Larry nods, agreeing with the sentiment on a whole other level. His heart feels heavy in his chest, and as he climbs back into their car, he can’t figure out why.




They drive for about twenty minutes, looking for a place to park. It is now night, and Freddy grows impatient.

“I’m sure wherever we are, we’ll see the fireworks,” reassures Larry, stopping at a red light.

They drive until they reach the Colorado River and find an enormous party thrown right on the bank. People are drinking and dancing, music spilling from the local bars and other establishments open for the occasion.

“Perfect!” exclaims Freddy before dashing out of the car as soon as it stops.

Larry parks and locks the car, then makes his way where Freddy has run off to.

They stop at the river bank, admiring its magnitude. The water is only a few feet below them, waves breaking on the brick wall that keeps the water where it should be. The water is dark and reflects the streetlights.

Suddenly, as if on cue, the first fireworks take off.

“Oh wow! Larry, look!” says Freddy, pointing towards the sky where a blue explosion appears seemingly out of nowhere.

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” says Larry, hiding his smile.

They are surrounded by people, but Larry feels alone with Freddy. He watches the sky and gets overwhelmed with the colors, the deafening sounds. Larry looks down just in time to see Freddy looking at him, smiling wide, his green eyes reflecting the colors of the fireworks.

Freddy immediately turns back to look at the fireworks, but in that split second, Larry feels _seen_ like never before. He can’t explain it. During this small, insignificant instant, he felt like Freddy _saw_ him, and didn't look away.

Larry searches his jacket for a cigarette, lighting up as more and more people cheer in time with the explosions. Larry inhales and exhales, and can’t seem to look anywhere else than Freddy. He can only see part of his face, half hidden by the darkness, but illuminated enough by the fireworks that Larry, stepping a bit on his left, can see him, really observe him back. It feels like Freddy is letting him look, because the younger man turns his head every so often, as to make sure Larry is still looking at him. Larry feels that _something_ is shifting, and dangerously so, and he smokes his cigarette right to the filter before throwing blindly in the river.

The fireworks are done a few moments after that, in an eruption of applause and cheers. People go back to their beers and meals, dancing the night away. Freddy turns around and grabs Larry’s sleeve, guiding him slowly but surely through the crowd back to their car.

They get back in and slam the doors. Larry sighs, savoring the relative silence. He can still hear the fireworks ringing in his ears.

4\. 

The whole drive to the nearest hotel is uncharacteristically silent. Freddy does not say a word, only looks either straight ahead or at Larry driving, his expression unreadable. Larry feels ever so slightly the shift from before, like something is about to happen that makes his skin crawl, and not in a bad way.

At the first hotel they stop, the rooms are pretty much all booked. They try their luck with two other hotels, driving through town aimlessly, before giving up and taking the last room at a seedy motel, closer to the highway. Larry pays for the room, barely listening to the old man at the front desk, takes the key and goes back into the car where Freddy greets him with a smile. 

“They only had this one room left, I’m sorry,” Larry says, walking back to where Freddy parked the car. 

“That’s fine,” Freddy says, pushing himself upright from where he was leaning on the passenger’s door. “And, hey, since it’s America’s birthday…”

Larry turns his head towards Freddy, eyebrows raised. The younger man is smiling, his bottom lip still swollen and split from their fight, and is delicately holding a joint between his fingers.

“Well, how about that! Are you a magician, or something?” asks Larry, huffing a laugh.

Freddy puts the joint behind his ear, like he would a cigarette.

“Found it already rolled in the emergency stash. Figured we’ll be fine since our clientele is mostly interested by the white powder department.”

“Fair enough.”

Larry takes out the room key from his pocket, making them jingle in the relative silence of the parking lot, but Freddy shakes his head.

“Come on, let’s smoke outside. The air will do us good,” Freddy says.

They walk a short distance, right to the parking lot’s edge, just before the street transforms into the highway entrance. They find a telephone booth and a bench, mostly hidden from view by two very tall trees. Their branches rustle subtly in the wind, immediately putting Larry at ease.

Larry sits down beside Freddy. He can faintly hear the cars on the highway, strangers driving into the night. If he turns his ear towards the city, he can guess party sounds: music, cheers… But it feels so far away, especially in this parking lot in the middle of nowhere.

Freddy slides the joint between his lips, freeing his hands.

“Where is that fucking…” says Freddy below his breath while tapping his pockets for a lighter.

Larry beats him to it, taking out his and, with a sharp flicker, lights it. Freddy nods in thanks and leans in, huffing and puffing until the joint is lit and the characteristic smell fills Larry’s nostrils. Freddy leans back, takes a puff and immediately coughs.

“Wow, truly an expert,” deadpans Larry, elbowing Freddy in the ribs.

Freddy hisses and Larry can’t help but to laughs sheepishly, only now remembering the fight.

“S’been a while,” says Freddy between two coughs, palping his bruised ribs with one hand, offering the joint to Larry with the other.

Larry takes it, brushing his fingers against Freddy’s. “Watch and learn.”

He inhales slowly, remembering to give it time, and exhales, managing to cough only a little bit. He inhales another time before passing the joint to Freddy again.

“Slowly,” he advises.

Freddy rolls his eyes. He takes another puff, then coughs some more.

“Come on, kid, you’re killing me,” Larry says, now truly laughing at his friend. “Here, let me help.”

He takes the joint back. “You know how to shotgun?” Larry asks.

As soon as he says the words out loud, he regrets it. His heart begins to pump faster and he immediately looks at Freddy’s face for any trace of discomfort.

He finds none. Freddy looks right at him, and nods seriously. He looks vulnerable, like they’re playing a game he’s not sure he knows the rules. Larry thinks he doesn’t know the rules either. Since they left LA, he’s just making it up as he goes. Larry wants to see how far he can push, how far he can reach before it all comes crumbling down on him.

“I open my mouth and you blow the smoke in, right?” says Freddy, his voice low and deliberate.

“Yeah, exactly. C’mere,” says Larry, inhaling deeply before he can change his mind.

Freddy parts his lips and leans in again, eye fluttering. Larry leans in close and sinks his eyes into Freddy’s. All he can see is two green pools, freckled with gold. This close, Freddy’s lips look like an invitation more than anything else. Larry can see his tongue, wet with saliva, and something dark curls right at the bottom of his stomach, twisting with something Larry does not want to address.

Larry tries to focus, finally blowing the smoke into Freddy’s pink mouth.

Freddy inhales in time, and Larry blinks, watching as Freddy takes all his time leaning back, exhaling towards the sky after a few moments.

Larry clears his throat. He can’t get his eyes off Freddy’s mouth.

“Much better.”

Freddy nods. Larry hands him the joint and Freddy looks at it, then straight back into his eyes. With the faint glow of the phone booth, Larry can see his dilatated pupils, the faint blush on his skin. Freddy looks at him like a cornered man with a gun would, scared, but willing to try anything. 

“My turn,” he finally says, and if possible, Larry’s heart beats even faster.

Freddy inhales slowly, then leans back in. Larry tries not to think about it, tries to just go for it, and so he does, ever so the man of action. He opens his mouth and angles his head just right.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he sees Freddy’s arm move up and feels his hand cup him at the back of his head, sliding down to the nape of his neck. Larry follows willingly, leaning closer and closer until their lips are millimeters apart, a breath away from touching. Larry’s head swim with Freddy’s smell, mixed with the smoke, lazily trailing off towards the sky. Larry waits.

The moment seems to last forever, Freddy blowing softly between them. Larry almost forgets to inhale, remembering at the last minute. He can’t concentrate, can’t focus on anything else than Freddy’s hand on him, how it burns it right through his bones, how they are so close, close enough to kiss, to touch… Larry’s hands stay right on his thighs, gripping at his pants, not trusting what he would do if he let go for only a moment.

They lean back and Larry has to blink a few times into the present moment before exhaling. Freddy tosses the mostly smoked joint on the ground, squeezing it under his heel.

Larry looks up, because he can’t bare to look at Freddy even one second more. He stares at the trees, peaceful, then turns his attention to the stars. He feels more than he sees Freddy follow his gaze. They stay like that for a while, their shoulders and thighs brushing, their hands a few inches apart.

“Come on, let’s go to sleep,” Freddy says after a while, getting up.

5.

Larry feels the drug’s effects on him, like he’s floating on a soft pillow of air, like at any moment, he could jump and never land again, simply flying away. His head is mostly clear, fog blurring the corner of his mind where he pushes his confused thoughts and enjoys the lightness that comes with smoking. 

Still, as they walk the short distance, Freddy brushes his knuckles on Larry’s hand, pace the same as Larry, and they bump a few times before reaching their car. They get their bags and turn to the room. Larry can feel Freddy’s eyes on him while he finds the key and pushes it in the lock. Larry’s arms are covered with goosebumps, and he keeps feeling where Freddy’s hand was on him earlier, like a lingering touch.

Larry is overstrung with an energy he is too high to try to understand. When he unlocks the door, Larry stops dead in his tracks, drops his bag on the floor and closes his eyes. Freddy has to side-step to enter the room, and stops too in the entrance.

There is only one bed.

Larry decides he is too tired to care, takes a few steps and sits down on the bed. He removes his shoes one by one with the help of his heels, then goes for his socks. Freddy is still standing in the entrance, blinking at Larry.

“Are you sure?” he slowly asks, his first words since they left the bench.

“Sure. We’ll put some pillows in the middle, or whatever. I’m tired and I am _not_ sleeping in the car,” says Larry, now working on his belt. He leaves only his t-shirt on, folding neatly his jacket on the ground beside his shoes.

Freddy nods and closes the door behind him. Larry finally strips down to his boxer briefs and covers himself immediately with the pale green duvet over his legs and torso, turning so that he can’t see Freddy change.

It takes a few minutes for Freddy to join him. Larry feels more than he sees the mattress dip under Freddy’s weight, and when Freddy finally turns off the light, Larry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

It feels like every fiber of him is aware that Freddy is beside him, breathing and moving, searching for a comfortable position. Larry feels his skin burn, still high from the drugs, every moment stretching into an eternity.

He tries to relax his muscles, one by one, and by the time Freddy is finally immobile, Larry has found a semblance of rhythmic breathing and can safely uncurl his fingers from his palms. He mentally counts to ten and Freddy does not move. Larry can hear him breathe slowly, regularly.

He shifts his weight and turns to face Freddy’s back and the first thing he sees is that the label is sticking out of Freddy’s shirt. Without thinking, Larry extends his arm and tucks it in, feeling Freddy’s skin on his knuckles for barely a second before retreating, tucking away safely his arm under his pillow.

A few moments later, Freddy turns around and shifts closer, eyes wide open. Larry blinks in the darkness. He can’t read Freddy’s expression, hate that he only sees shadows. They are so close, almost nose to nose, their pillows connecting in the middle of the queen-sized bed. Larry has to remind himself to breathe, his hard work at calming himself gone in an instant.

“Goodnight, Larry” whispers Freddy, as his hand comes up in a friction of sheets to Larry’s brow.

Larry can feel a ghost of a touch on his day-old bandage, Freddy’s fingers tracing the line of his injury, following all the way down to his chin. It’s not a caress, not exactly, but Larry closes his eyes and leans in anyway.

“Goodnight,” he answers, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Freddy’s hand falls in the space between them, like an invitation. Larry, in response, delicately lays his fingers around Freddy’s wrist, fingers encircling it slowly, so that at any time, Freddy can pull away.

He does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! Thank you again for your interest and comments/kudos, I really appreciate it! <3


	6. LOUISIANA

**LOUISIANA**

1.

Larry and Freddy stop at a motel on their way back to Louisiana. The eight-hour drive is rapidly becoming more and more tedious as the heat and humidity grows stronger, the tiredness of long-distance travel making Larry yawn every two or so minutes.

“Come on, let’s stop wherever, we’ll pick up tomorrow,” says Freddy.

Larry is happy to oblige, picking at random yet another motel for them to stop for the night.

At the local restaurant, Larry orders chicken and salad, feeling like the multiple greasy burgers he ate in the last weeks are slowly catching up to him. Freddy orders the same. They eat while watching the new baseball game on the ridiculously small television set in the restaurant, arguing over players performances and if the Blue Jays were good enough to beat the Braves at the World’s Series.

Back at the motel, it is Freddy’s turn to book the rooms. When he comes back, though, he only has one key in hand. Larry looks him up and down, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Figured we’d save some money by only renting one room,” Freddy says, looking away, the top of his ears slowly turning from pink to red.

Larry nods seriously, and tries really hard not to smirk. “Of course, makes perfect sense.”

They get comfortable on one of the beds for the night, watching a rerun of the last Indiana Jones on cable. When Larry feels his eyes slowly closing by themselves, he simply lies down, quickly falling asleep. Freddy wordlessly turns off the lights and the volume, and when the movie ends, he does not move, lying down besides Larry.

When Larry wakes up, Freddy is in the shower, but the bed is still warm. He feels like whatever he’s been searching for is close now, closer than it has ever been. He does not want to jinx it, wants to keep it a secret, even from himself.

Larry listens to Freddy hum softly in the shower, closes his eyes and smiles.




Larry feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. The shootout happened so quickly; he doesn’t even remember who shot first. Probably the buyer, with his two bodyguards and his nasty habit of spitting on the ground every time he ended a sentence.

Drug dealers. What a bunch of assholes.

“Larry!”

He hears his name as he feels himself fall to the ground, his left hand squeezing instinctively his right shoulder. He sees in a blur one of the bodyguards laying a few feet away from him, blood spilling down his stomach, like a dam that had been broken by a crimson river.

Larry shivers. He’s still holding his weapon in his left hand, making it hard to hold onto his right shoulder. Larry takes some time to put his gun back into its holster. He can already hear police sirens in the distance.

Right in front of him, the dealer and his other friend grab the motionless body of their companion and hauls it up to their sports car, driving away in a cacophony of tire screeches and profanities.

Suddenly, someone grabs him by the shoulders, and hauls him up, and then he’s running for their car, Larry’s feet barely touching the ground. Freddy is the one holding him together, pushing him in the back seat. He then runs around to start the car in a hurry, driving away as fast as possible.

Larry, in a semi-detached way, now understands that he was shot. He looks down and sees that his suit is ripped right where his shoulder connects to his arm. Relief floods him to see no blood whatsoever. The bullet only grazed him. A few centimeters on the left and he would have been in a lot of pain.

_Those fuckers_ , he thinks, _they tore my fucking suit_.

“Larry, talk to me – _shit shit shit_ – Larry? Can you hear me?”

Freddy’s voice is strained, bordering hysterical.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Larry sighs, pushing himself upright. “My jacket is ruined.” 

The car slows down almost immediately. “Your… _What_?”

“My jacket. The bullet tore the seam, grazed me,” repeats Larry, slowly putting on his seatbelt, a smile forming on his lips. “Don’t think I’ll be able to repair it myself.”

Freddy shoots him a look through the review mirror. He looks terrified, like he hadn’t had the guts to look at him until just now. His eyes are big and his expression a mix of disbelief and relief.

“Motherfucker, I though you _died_ ,” Freddy says weakly, his shoulders dropping all at once.

Larry can see beads of sweat falling down Freddy’s brow to his temple, and is taken by a strong feeling he can’t name. The kid really looks like he though Larry was badly wounded, and to see him care that much makes something in Larry’s stomach flip. He doesn’t remember being cared for that much by anyone else. 

Freddy keeps driving in the narrow streets of Louisiana until they can’t hear the police sirens anymore. They circle back to their motel, hiding the car so that anyone driving around would not see it from the street.

“I can’t believe that they shot you. They had the drugs and everything!” shouts Freddy when they’re back inside their room.

He’s pacing, his adrenaline still obviously keeping him going.

“I should have ended those fuckers, I should have shot them, and-”

Larry sits down on the bed, grateful for the AC. The humidity is dreadful outside, he can feel his hair curl behind his ears every time he steps out.

“No. We got the money. We got out clean. That’s what’s important,” he says, and while he says it out loud, realizes that they were very, very lucky.

Freddy stops dead in his tracks while Larry unties his tie, shakes off his jacket and white shirt from his shoulders.

“Larry… They could have killed you…” Freddy rambles on, raking a hand through his messy hair. “I- We- I don’t know what I would have… Are you sure you’re okay?”

Forgetting himself, he steps into Larry’s space, raises his hand as if to touch Larry on his shoulder, but stops himself a few inches away. Larry’s breath catches in his throat. It’s as if time had stopped, leaving them suspended in the air.

The invisible barrier between them is now plainly and painfully visible in how Freddy retreats his hand in a hurry, like he was burnt by the mere proximity of Larry’s shoulder. Larry is surprised by how disappointed he feels when Freddy takes a few steps back and resumes his pacing, albeit this time less frantic.

Larry forces himself to breathe out. “I’m fine, kid, see?”

He turns towards the light so that Freddy can see that his shoulder is intact, even going as far as to pull up his t-shirt sleeve. “Right? Not a scratch.”

He smiles. “Besides, if I had been shot, I know the two others would have been dead in a matter of seconds. Because we’re professionals. Besides, a shoulder wound wouldn’t have killed me.”

Freddy stops once more, and collapses on the other bed face first, the frantic energy leaving him all at once.

“Ugh, still. What a bunch of assholes,” Larry hears him say, muffled by the pillows.

Larry laughs. “Told ya before: some people are out there lookin’ for trouble. The deal was done, they were greedy, that’s it.”

Freddy nods, pushing himself in a sitting position. Their knees, in between the two beds, are barely touching, but Larry thinks of it as a victory, of how more relaxed the kid looks. Freddy seems to breathe normally again and seems shaken, not panicked.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay,” Freddy murmurs after awhile, bumping Larry’s left foot with his own. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done if…”

Larry feels bold and puts his hand on Freddy’s knee. “It’s alright, I’m here now.”

Freddy looks down at the hand on his knee, then looks back up at him and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Freddy runs a hand over his face. He makes no movement to indicate that Larry’s hand on his knee is disturbing him.

“God, I need a beer,” Freddy says, looking back at Larry with a weak smile, the first one since they escaped from the buyers.

“I think we need shots first,” answers Larry wisely.




After all that excitement, they vote to slow down their route, enjoying the busy city that is Louisiana. The other deals are a week away anyway, and they have the luxury of taking time for themselves.

They decide to take two days off, and visit some of the landmarks, stopping here and there for a good meal at local restaurants. They play their missed game of billiards; Larry loses, like he knew he would. They go out at night to go listen to some live music. They look up at the stars before going to bed. They take long walks around their neighborhood. 

It all feels so nice, Larry feels like he is on vacation. God, he hadn’t taken a vacation in forever.

On the second night, he looks as Freddy excitedly tastes a new dish; all traces of nervousness gone. He seems happy, smiling and laughing, teasing Larry and chatting away about baseball, or a new movie, or a funny memory. That’s what Larry likes being with Freddy. There’s always something to talk about.

_I could get used to this_ , Larry thinks, smiling and teasing right back, and is surprised that for once, the though of retirement doesn’t fill him with dread or images of his own funeral.

He can almost picture himself, somewhere warm, maybe on a beach, somewhere. Before Freddy, this unclear image he let himself daydream about was always a solitary one, but now… A figure emerges besides him, foggy. Sunglasses perched on his head and a young smile, dirty blonde hair falling in deep green eyes, freckled with gold…

When Larry catches himself thinking about that specific image, he always shakes it off and laughs at his own naivete. He does not let himself dream too much. _When you dream too much, that’s when shit hits the fan and life happens,_ his dad used to say.

But sometimes, Freddy smiles at him from across a room, and the daydream doesn’t feel so silly anymore.




The last night they spend at the motel, Larry wakes up around four in the morning, disturbed by their room door closing. He blinks in the darkness and searches for Freddy, but finds nothing more than rumpled sheets.

He gets up, suddenly nervous, and puts on his shoes, stepping out himself in his pajamas. The cold air of the night hits him, and it’s a welcome change from the humidity of the day.

He finds Freddy pretty easily, hunched over himself in a phonebooth that borders the east side of the motel. Apart from the booth, Larry can spot a garbage can and a bench. It’s eerily similar to the spot they smoked weed a few days ago, only a few hundred kilometers away.

Freddy seems deep into conversation, and from where he’s standing, Larry spots his little handbook almost twisted in his hand. 

Larry, keys in hand, does not know if he wants to approach. Freddy seems stressed, raking a nervous hand through his hair, almost shouting. Larry can’t hear what he is saying, his voice muffled by the cabin, but he knows whoever is at the other end of the line is not happy with Freddy.

Larry waits until Freddy shifts in the phone booth to walk up to him, listening intently. Unlike his normal behavior, Freddy sounds almost pleading. When he’s close enough, Larry can finally hear what he’s saying.

He crosses his arms and waits, ear turned towards the booth, a few feet away. Freddy doesn’t spot him. His heart is pounding. Who could Freddy be calling in the dead of the night? Who or what is so secretive that Larry can’t be present for this phone call?

“You gotta understand,” Freddy pleads, his shoulders tensing up, “This is it for me. I don’t want to- No, _you_ , listen, I’m not losing myself in the game… Holdaway, I swear to God, leave me alone, I’ve made- _What?_ You’re _completely_ wrong about him! That’s the thing! You-”

Larry frowns, his heart suddenly stuck in his throat. He never heard Freddy like that before. Is he talking about him? The kid has always had a nervous energy about him, but never like this. Never this frantic.

Larry had noticed before how Freddy would sometimes excuse himself to write something down in his notebook, or make a phone call at the bars then ended up most nights. He thought nothing of it at the time, but now… Now, Larry feels like a fool. Something is definitely not right.

Larry can’t take it anymore and takes a few steps forward, steps around the garbage can. He knocks on the glass of the cabin. Freddy jumps two feet in the air, then turns around. Larry frowns even more. The kid looks haunted, scared and fragile. He stares at Larry, barely listening to anything this mysterious Holdaway has to say anymore. Finally, after what seems an eternity, he brings up the phone back to his mouth.

“You’re wrong and I quit. Don’t try to find me, or else.”

Freddy hangs up and gets out of the cabin, charging to Larry.

“Everything okay, kid?”

Freddy shakes his head, grips Larry’s shoulders and whispers furiously, “I gotta tell you the truth, but first, I need to take care of something.”

Larry’s heart sinks. The truth? What is he talking about?

“What? Freddy, slow down, it’s four in the fucking morning!”

Freddy steps aside, runs to the car, grabs his leather jacket, a few other things from his bag, including the wedding ring Larry had seen shining on his finger weeks before, and runs to the garbage can right beside the phonebooth, throwing all his stuff inside.

Larry walks to the trash can, unsure of what to do. They’re still in the middle of a motel’s parking lot, the moon and streetlamps their only sources of light. Larry suddenly thinks he must be dreaming. Not a few hours ago, they were laughing in the restaurant, bickering about what CD to listen to when they would get out of Louisiana. None of this frantic, scary situation seems real.

Larry peers inside the trash can. He spots the glint from the wedding ring and the leather jacket, along with other waste, like half eaten burgers and a can of Sprite.

“Your lighter. Please, Larry, come on,” Freddy turns to him, pleading.

His hair is all over the place, his breathing nervous and faltering. Larry hands him his lighter. Freddy then grabs his notebook from his back pocket and, without a second of hesitation, lights it on fire. 

Larry could not be more confused if he tried. He stares as Freddy drops the notebook in the garbage can, and watches as slowly but surely, the rest of his stuff catches on fire. The wedding ring, now obviously cheap and melting, does not last long. Freddy sighs, like a huge weight has come off his shoulders.

“Freddy. You’re gonna tell me what the hell is going on, now, or what?” says Larry, trying to keep his voice under control.

Something… Something is not right. Something is shifting again, but this time, Larry can’t help but to feel like he’s falling, and nothing is there to break his fall.

Freddy breathes in and out, raking a hand again and again through his blonde, messy hair.

“Fuck. This is hard. I think I’m gonna be sick,” Freddy says, still looking at the fire, now well lit and smelling worse and worse by the second.

They step back a little bit, Larry starting to feel his skin prickle, just like when his instincts warn him when something is about to go terribly wrong. Mentally, he goes back to this morning, when they woke up together, their bodies pressed against each other. He thinks back at the feeling he had when Freddy didn’t even run, or punched him or anything, he just looked at him and smiled. Larry furiously tries to remember Freddy’s smile, tries to escape the reality by focusing on the softness of his voice wishing him good morning, and how, at that instant, Larry wished he would wake up the rest of his life alongside Freddy.

Larry is abruptly taken back to the present moment when Freddy sighs and looks at him right in the eye.

“Larry, I’m a cop.”

Larry blinks, almost laughs. His mouth opens, and nothing comes out.

“I’m… Well, I _was_ a cop. Undercover. I was tasked to do the diamond job. It was supposed to be rigged,” continues Freddy, furiously chasing after his eyes.

Larry feels his legs buckle under him, his knees almost giving up. He staggers, the shock reverberating in his whole body.

“Larry, I’m so sorry. I lied to you about that, but I didn’t lie about anything else.”

Larry’s head is spinning. He looks at the fire and feels the same flame in his stomach, burning with rage and hurt, having finally trusted someone enough just to have all of this – all that they’ve been able to build, slowly, _carefully_ \- taken away in one simple sentence.

Suddenly, everything clicks in Larry’s head: the fake bravado, the leather jacket that doesn’t fit, the mysterious phone calls, the cover stories… Larry spits on the ground, stick to his stomach, and, in one swift motion, punches Freddy in the face.

Freddy sputters and falls backwards, only catching himself at the last minute. He looks back at Larry, holding the side of his face.

Larry looks into Freddy’s green eyes and he knows, he knows deep down he should kill him, should throw his body in acid and make him disappear. He regrets for a second not having his gun on him. When Freddy steps forward, pleading, Larry, blinded by rage, punches him a second time.

Freddy staggers back and spits blood on the ground, but Larry is not done. He grabs Freddy by the helm of his shirt and forces him backwards, until his back collides with the motel brick wall. Larry breathes hard, Freddy’s bloody face almost too painful to look at.

“M-my name is Freddy Newandyke. I’m- I _am_ from LA… I d- _did_ forget my mom’s birthday, and you- you, Larry, taught me how to iron a shirt,” suddenly stutters Freddy, his voice distorted by the blood running down his nose.

Larry hits him again two times in the ribs, grunting. 

Freddy collapses on the ground, heaving and coughing. Larry feels his stomach turn, thinking of all the things he shared of himself, how carefree he was. He tries to block Freddy’s voice, tries to put aside his breaking heart. Larry can’t hear any more of what Freddy has to say. Larry knows he’s too weak to resist the pull, the link he felt with Freddy the minute he entered the bar to meet Joe Cabot all those weeks ago, and he hates himself for it.

“Since Las Vegas, since you told me your name, I’ve been misleading my old boss,” says Freddy between two breaths after Larry doesn’t hit him again. 

Larry does not look down, trying to catch his breath. He feels like he’s never going to be able to breathe deeply again, like his lungs are slowly closing and his throat feels as big as a straw.

“Right now, he thinks we’re in Idaho. He… He never knew any details; he knows nothing about _you_. I lied to him b-because I wanted to protect you, Larry.”

“Oh, so you wanted to play criminal, that it?” says Larry, voice strained. He feels the anger below his skin, feels how it makes him powerful, and relishes in the sentiment, tries to hold onto it a little longer. He needs to feel this, because he’s starting to realize that he’s more than falling without a net, he is being _pushed_ from the top of a skyscraper.

“Wanted to string me along and shoot me in the back at the first opportunity?” he snarls, his tone dangerous.

“No!”

The answer is quick, pleading, terrified. Larry closes his eyes for a second, trying to make sense of everything.

“No, not at all, I… I just wanted to know you better, to escape LA and… I’ve thought about you… About _this_ since we met at the goddamn bar, Larry, _please_ , you gotta believe me.”

Larry groans and kicks him in the stomach, because Freddy said the words, the same he was thinking about earlier, about the night they met. It makes it so much more difficult, to know that they can _name_ it, they both practically have a name for it, but Larry is still fighting, still clawing at the faint sense of trust he felt during those past weeks and the loss he feels right now.

All of Freddy’s air leave his lungs, leaving him gasping and coughing some more.

He wants to believe Freddy so badly. If only he had time to _think_. Usually so calm in a stressful situation, Larry can’t think straight, can’t apply the rules made so clear in the criminal world. Undercover cops are as good as dead, so _why_ is Larry so torn? Why is it so difficult to accept the fact that he _needs_ to kill Freddy?

_Because you can’t. You just can’t kill him_ , he thinks.

Even more strange, the though does not alarm him. It actually calms him down a little bit.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, voice still struggling.

Freddy hangs his head and looks down, propping himself on his forearms. “I don’t know. I wanted to tell you much sooner, but couldn’t… I mean… I didn’t want what we… I didn’t want to risk losing you. Larry… You- I… I don’t want to lose you.”

Larry’s arms fall at his side. He suddenly feels drained, like he’s been awake for a thousand years. Freddy risked everything, his _life_ , to tell him the truth. If Larry decides to believe him, to move past this, it means committing and running away with Freddy. Images of his previous fantasy come back in his mind by flashes, and Larry finds himself wanting it more and more.

His anger drips out of him and when he looks down at Freddy, all he can see is… _Freddy_. Not a criminal, not a cop. Just a blonde kid from LA who loves tacos as much as him and foolishly believes that the Blue Jays are going to win the Baseball World Cup.

His heart skips a few beats and he is dizzy with the realization that _he is_ going to do this. This is it.

He looks at Freddy and knows that for better or for worse, this kid has infected him, scratching under his skin like an itch he can’t get rid off. For the first time in years, Larry had felt safe, seen and trusted. In his line of work, it’s practically impossible to have all these things in partners and stay alive.

For once, Larry wants to change the odds. He wants to break the rules. He’s older, has nothing and nobody waiting for him back home, and if the person he foolishly fell for is an ex-cop who decided to burn bridges and run away from his old life just for _him_ , then Larry accepts it.

He accepts it like he accepts that he’s retiring right there and now, and that he’s _also_ burning bridges with the Cabot family, which could be dangerous. Larry finds himself not caring, especially when Freddy looks up, eyes pleading and hopeful. A strong feeling takes over him, one of protection and affection, deeply rooted in his old heart.

Larry breathes hard through his nose, and grabs him by the arm, helping him up. Freddy clumsily stands, waiting for the final blow, wincing in advance.

Instead, Larry cups Freddy’s face in his hands and crashes his lips on his. It’s almost savage, Larry biting at Freddy’s lower lip where it’s still swollen, feeling Freddy’s blood stick on his face. Freddy kisses back almost immediately, relief pouring out of him like sweat, grabbing at Larry’s arms, back, anything to keep him grounded.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” he keeps mumbling between kisses, and Larry, foolish, head over heels fallen for this kid Larry, believes every word, even if it means getting arrested in the next town over, even if it means running away for the rest of his life, even if it means dying.

He believes and trusts, because he’s too tired to do anything else, and Freddy is right there, pliant and wanting, pushing himself on Larry, his hands still firmly touching on any part of his body that he can reach. It’s intoxicating and Larry wants nothing more than to make it last forever.

He wants nothing more than to believe.

5.

They stumble back to their dark room, hungry and urgent, Larry kicking the door closed blindly behind him. Freddy has already taken off his shirt, and Larry is struggling with his. He doesn’t want to break the intensity of the moment, tries to kiss Freddy as much as possible between his tries to take it off.

Freddy groans and helps him, and as soon as his shirt hits the floor, Freddy doesn’t waste a second and is touching Larry’s chest, his fingers burning light trails on Larry’s skin.

Larry knows he’s built, but still big compared to Freddy’s more lean body, but Larry doesn’t feel ashamed for one minute, not with the way Freddy sighs with contempt while exploring his torso, his sides, like he waited for so long to caress him, to be able to _touch_ him.

Larry kisses him deeply, Freddy’s fingers still on him, and walks them to his bed. The room is plunged in darkness, so when Larry pushes Freddy without any real force on the bed, he can only guess Freddy’s expression. When he turns on the lamp on the nightstand, his stomach twist. On Freddy’s face is pure lust, wanting, longing… Larry’s head spin. He thinks that his own face is probably a mirror of Freddy’s. In the pale light that casts the old lamp, Freddy is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

“God, kid, you’re gorgeous,” Larry says, and he feels cliché, but it’s truly what he thinks.

Freddy blushes immediately under all this scrutiny, his chest flushing with an attractive pink color. Larry climbs on the bed and is grateful for the light, because he wants to remember this moment, this specific instant where his darkest, most personal dreams seem to come to life in a mouth-watering scenario.

Freddy grabs him by the shoulders while it’s now Larry turn to explore. He kisses Freddy right below his jaw, in the crook of his neck, then on his right collar bone, coming back for more open mouth kisses, sliding effortlessly his lips against Freddy’s own. He feels Freddy’s muscles twitch and contract at every touch and it drives Larry crazy.

“Fuck… Oh my God, _fuck_ ,” says Freddy between two kisses, and Larry is happy to know that he’s not the only one with a scrambled brain right now.

Larry slides a leg between Freddy’s thighs, feels how Freddy is now hard and aching, mirroring his own growing desire to be touched. He grinds down on Freddy and the result is an explosive pleasure right below his belly button, and as he chases for more, he feels Freddy shift and groans and, if possible, kiss him with even more urgency.

Larry feels Freddy’s hands come to rest on his hips, sliding his thumbs under his pajama pants, and pushing them down slowly, too slow for Larry’s taste. It’s difficult to step back from this delicious friction, but Larry does so just enough so that Freddy can free his growing erection from his pants. He kicks them down the bed.

Larry looks at Freddy looking at his cock and just the sight alone of this pretty man, lips parted, so clearly wanting _him_ makes Larry wants to kiss Freddy again, so he does.

“Larry, come on, please, please,” whines Freddy after a few kisses, as he tries to get rid of his own pajama pants, the only item of clothing left between them.

Larry laughs a strangled laugh and helps him. They are finally naked, Larry dipping his hips and Freddy meeting him halfway, giving and giving as Larry grinds down and almost drowns in his own pleasure.

Freddy’s hair is falling into his green eyes, and Larry pushes back strands to better look at him, their breaths mingling and eyes locking, and when Freddy licks his palm and goes to squeeze their cocks together, Larry is close to losing his mind.

“Oh fuck,” repeats Freddy and Larry kisses him, matching Freddy’s rhythm as he pushes into his hand, the friction almost too much to bear.

Larry looks as Freddy tips over and relishes in how his back arches and his lips tremble with a small gasp as he spills in the space between them, coating his fingers and their stomachs with hot spurs of come. Larry is close behind, fucking into Freddy’s fist as his orgasm takes over him, powerful and urgent.

Larry half collapses on Freddy, out of breath, mind spinning with his afterglow. Freddy simply holds him, and Larry can feel sweat at the side of Freddy’s temples, mixed with his own.

After a few minutes, he rolls over, breathing out slow and steady. Freddy sighs and laughs softly.

“Oh, I truly am fucked, am I?” he asks the ceiling, hands tentatively touching his face where Larry had punched him.

Larry can see his work and gets up without a word, finding the first aid kit. He’s got come drying on his stomach, but he does not care. He’s not finished yet with Freddy anyway, and as he can see when he turns around, Freddy already has a hand on his hardening cock, shamelessly looking at Larry’s back, his ass.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” says Larry with a grin as he sits back on the bed and starts to tend Freddy’s wounds.

It’s not too bad, a minor cut here and there, his bottom lip swollen from all the kisses, a small nosebleed that Freddy had already wiped with his shirt. When it’s done, Larry throws the kit on the ground and tenderly cups Freddy’s face in his hands. Freddy leans in and closes his eyes, and it makes something in Larry want to scream, in how easy Freddy is to trust him, how he gave up _everything_ for him. Larry does not feel worthy, but then again, he’s no saint either. 

“I’m sorry,” Freddy murmurs, lightly raking his fingers through Larry’s hair.

Larry kisses him so that he doesn’t have to say anything else.

Larry truly believes he doesn’t need to.

This time, Larry is calculated. He takes his time tasing Freddy, kissing not only his lips, but also his cheek, the side of his nose, his forehead. He comes back to Freddy’s mouth, just because he can now, and feels like he’s never going to get used to it.

“I want to… I want to suck you, please, Larry,” says Freddy under his breath, “I want to taste you on my tongue…”

Larry’s heart stops as he nods wordlessly, wondering what he did to stumble upon such a blessing in Freddy’s mere existence.

Freddy sinks to the ground, kneeling, as Larry sits at the side of the bed. Freddy looks up from under his eyelashes, pupils dilatated as he wastes no time and takes Larry in his mouth. The heat, the wetness, all of it makes Larry groans, and he uncurls his fingers to hold onto Freddy’s hair for dear life.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Freddy, sweetheart” he whispers as Freddy concentrates on licking and sucking, up and down, his tongue and lips dragging on his shaft and head, doing wonders to bring Larry close to orgasm in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

Larry can see Freddy’s erection bouncing on his hip in time while he sucks his length. Freddy looks up at him every minute or so, painting the prettiest picture Larry has ever seen.

It’s maddening, how Larry had dreams exactly like this, of Freddy noisily and obscenely sucking his off, but now that it’s happening for real, Larry can’t help but think he must be dreaming again, must be imagining things. The kid looks so sweet, yet so depraved, his hair disheveled, his face clean, but wounded, and Larry grabs at the side of the sheets hard so that he doesn’t push his hips forward too much down Freddy’s throat.

When he feels he’s close, he taps Freddy gently on the shoulder, but Freddy only looks up and takes him deeper, wet heat enveloping Larry in such a way that Freddy’s eyes on him is the last straw before he succumbs.

“Oh Freddy, _oh my god_ ,” he moans, while Freddy continues sucking him through and swallows around him.

After a while, Freddy leans back. His hands that were resting on Larry’s thighs rise until they get to his hips, and Freddy simply puts down his head on his lap, breathing in and out until Larry comes back from his rush, his head swimming pleasantly.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, grabbing Freddy by the shoulders and easily bringing him up so that Freddy is laying down on the bed again, his erection painfully visible, twitching under this new attention.

Larry lays down beside him and kisses Freddy very gently, tasting himself on his lips, deepening the kiss while his hand explores Freddy’s body, squeezing his muscular arms, stopping at his pale nipples to pinch, enjoying Freddy’s moans, and continuing towards his ass. Larry squeezes again and again, sliding the length of his hand close to Freddy’s entrance, lightly spreading one of his cheeks, teasing him before going for his thighs, his knees, as far as Larry can reach.

Freddy squirms below him, the thorough touching making him blush deeper, and as Larry nips at his collar bones, Freddy begins to beg.

“Please Larry, please, I need… I need you, _fuck_ , I’m gonna…”

Larry moves back, only to see Freddy’s glazed over eyes with lust, his pretty lips parted just so, his cock still hard between his hips, and if Larry hadn’t come twice already, he would have surely been hard again right about now. He surprises himself when his cock twitches, but ignores his own needs and places himself between Freddy’s legs, spreading them in a delightfully sinful way.

Freddy lets him, bravely maintaining eye contact with Larry as he kisses close to his cock, Larry’s hot breath making his length twitch again. Larry teases, touches, but barely, taking his time to appreciate the moment. Freddy moans and grunts in desperation, Larry’s touch always pleasant, but not near enough of what he really needs. 

“Please, Larry, please,” he says once more, and Larry can’t wait any longer.

He takes Freddy’s cock into his mouth, returning the favor, and Freddy’s head falls back on the pillow, a long sigh escaping his lips.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” asks Freddy in a strangled voice that makes Larry’s heart skip a beat

“I’ve touched myself in the shower… when we shared the room back in Texas. I wanted you to walk in on me so badly,” continues Freddy while Larry bops his head up, and down, licking Freddy’s cock all the way down, careful not to use his teeth.

“I wanted you to flip me over and fuck me so good… Fuck, Larry, you’re so good at this, I’m… Please put your fingers inside me, _please_ ,” Freddy whines.

Larry looks up and sees Freddy looking at him, his pink tongue wetting his lips. He always knew Freddy was a talker, couldn’t shut him up, but now, Larry wants nothing more than to hear more of his dirty thoughts.

Larry slowly brings a finger up to Freddy’s mouth. The kid swallows it, coating it with saliva, and Larry pushes a second one in, just because he can. Freddy moans around them, sucking while Larry loses a bit of his focus.

He comes back up for a little break, almost hypnotized by the way Freddy takes his fingers again and again, without complaining. With regret, Larry removes his fingers and slides them between Freddy’s cheeks, going down on him once more.

He slides one in slowly, letting Freddy accommodate to the intrusion. He tries to match his rhythm with his hand, careful not to go too hard too fast. Freddy begs for more not too long after that and Larry slides the other finger, stretching and gently poking for Freddy’s sweet spot. He finds it, and soon enough, has Freddy moaning mostly just profanities, and when he comes, Larry swallows it all, his fingers still gently rocking inside of him.

After a few moments, Freddy puts a hand on his shoulder, alerting him that it’s too much, and Larry stops, removes his fingers from the wet heat between Freddy’s legs and kisses around his softening cock. He trails kisses back up to Freddy’s face, and Freddy happily kisses him on the mouth, wrapping his arms around Larry’s side, his limbs now loose and slow.

“Larry,” he sighs, and Larry closes his eyes, savoring his name in Freddy’s fucked out tone.

“Freddy,” he whispers back, not wanting to say anything else, planting small kisses to his temple, his hair, his shoulder.

With what feels like superhuman willpower, Larry leaves Freddy alone in the bed to look for a towel. He finds one in the bathroom, soaks it with warm water, and wipes them both clean, Freddy almost asleep already.

He dumps the towel on the ground and slides himself under the covers, shuffling close, his naked body pressed against Freddy’s back. Freddy falls asleep in a matter of seconds. Larry hums and thinks about how they both took the gamble of their life.

How they still are.

“ _This is it_ ,” he thinks, looking at Freddy’s profile, lightly kissing his shoulder. “ _This is it and I’m fucking glad it is._ ”

He turns off the light and thinks about how if Freddy’s truly fucked as he says he is, then Larry is right there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Don't forget to comment with your thoughts/kudo, they mean the world to me!


	7. MISSISIPI AND ALABAMA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is uhm... well, horny. I got nothing else to say, happy reading!)

**MISSISIPI AND ALABAMA**




“ _Larry_ …”

Larry hears his name from far away. It’s dark all around him. He is chasing a dream, walking fast and trying to reach something, his hands outstretched in front of him. Larry is so close… He can feel the soft edges of what he is after, can feel the warmth underneath his fingertips.

“ _Larry_ …”

Larry suddenly feels pecks on his neck, raises his hand to try to guess what causes them and, in the process, wakes up. He’s lying on his back, his arm is half raised, touching Freddy’s shoulder.

Freddy is kissing slowly at his neck, right below his jaw. They’re naked under the covers, their bodies pressed close. Larry’s heart skips a few beats when he suddenly remembers last night. His foggy mind tries to clear as Freddy becomes more and more insistent.

“Larry…” whispers Freddy before gently licking right behind his ear lobe, where the skin is sensitive. Larry shivers.

“Larry, wake up…”

Larry groans and turns around, wrapping himself over Freddy, who lets out a yelp of surprise. Larry feels like the fireworks from Texas are exploding in his chest. Freddy is in bed with _him_. How weird of a feeling, to have someone to hold in the morning, to breathe in. To have someone. To have Freddy.

He caresses Freddy’s arms, his nicely muscled biceps. Larry, lazily, lets his hands trail over his shoulder, down to his ribs. He squeezes Freddy’s sides and rubs circles low on his back, soothing, reassuring and intimate. He can feel heat building up slowly in his belly, but does not pay too much attention to his desire, focusing instead on Freddy. He smiles, his tired eyes taking it all in. He likes how Freddy’s hair looks in the morning, how ruffled and unguarded he is, green eyes sleepy and warm, an crease of the pillow still on his left cheekbone.

Freddy reaches back and kisses where he can reach. Larry feels his lips on his collarbone. He laughs.

“Good morning,” Larry finally says, pressing a kiss in Freddy’s messy hair. “Slept well?”

Freddy squirms and suddenly, he’s on top of Larry, straddling his hips. Larry looks up, tilting his chin. Freddy brings the covers around them, keeping the cool air of the room away, his body pressing down on Larry. Freddy’s arms come up on either side of Larry’s face, brushing delicately his cheeks with his thumbs.

“Never slept better,” answers Freddy before kissing Larry right on the mouth.

Larry closes his eyes and kisses back. He feels like he’s dreaming again. No way _anything_ tastes so sweet.

Freddy licks inside Larry’s mouth and he lets him, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. Freddy’s wet tongue sliding on his sends shivers down his spine. Larry marvels at how easy it is to kiss Freddy, how he does not feel even a hint of remorse. Their bodies fit together like the sea and the shore, giving and taking, and taking and giving. Freddy kisses him like he has something to prove, but Larry already believes him, already _knows_.

When they part, Freddy is slightly blushing, smiling wide. Larry grins back and suddenly flips them over in one swift motion, blocking Freddy’s ankles with his calf and shifting his weight.

“Hey!” protests Freddy as he goes, the covers tangling them together.

It dawns rapidly on Larry that the heat pooling in his lower stomach is not going anywhere. He takes in Freddy right below him, completely vulnerable and willing. Larry groans and kisses Freddy again. Now that he knows he can do want he wants with Freddy; he does not know where to start.

He kisses Freddy until they’re breathless, his hands slowly making their way down Freddy’s body. Freddy hums, completely taken by the kiss and light caresses. When Larry’s hands land on Freddy’s inner thighs, Freddy’s breath catches in his throat. He breaks the kiss to look down where Larry is gently spreading his legs.

“Oh, Larry,” breathes out Freddy as he complies, his cheeks pink and his eyes so, so green.

Larry untangles them from the covers, kneeling between Freddy’s spread legs. In the delicate morning light coming through the thin drapes, he drags the tip of his fingers across Freddy’s torso and relishes in the way he can spot the goosebumps on his flesh.

His fingers go outwards, encircling Freddy at the top of his ribcage, brushing his thumbs right over his nipples. They harden immediately, and Larry can’t help himself. He pinches them, slowly, building up the pressure, then releasing. He then brushes his thumbs again and again on now the very sensitive area. Freddy gasps and shudders, his back arching a little.

“Larry, _Jesus_ ,” whispers Freddy, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. 

Larry goes down further, pushes his thighs open a little more and wraps a hand around his hardening cock. Freddy is pretty, pink as his cheeks and flush with anticipation.

Larry looks up to see Freddy still hiding his face. He lightly taps Freddy on his hipbone to get his attention.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” Larry says, his voice still rough with sleep. 

Freddy slowly removes his arm from his eyes and looks at Larry. His mouth falls open when he sees Larry on top of him, his thighs firmly spread and Larry right between them, working him in the most deliberate motion. Instead of hiding his face again, he reaches to touch Larry, like even at that small distance, Larry feels too far.

Larry feels like he’s going to lose his mind. He tries to focus and stops for a minute what he is doing.

“Freddy… I’m… I want-” he says, frustrated he can’t really find the words.

He thinks for a few seconds, his hand still loosely around Freddy. The younger man waits patiently, biting down at his bruised lip.

“I want _you_ ,” Larry settles after a moment. “Do you understand? I want _all_ of you, Freddy.”

Freddy nods, almost whimpering. “Yes, yes, please, I want all of you too, just… _please_ , touch me.”

Larry obliges, putting down more pressure while resuming his movements. Freddy groans when he teases the head of his cock with his thumb, brushing just behind, relishing in seeing Freddy get even harder.

Larry, with his other hand, leans in and, with his index, traces Freddy’s soft lips until Freddy gets the hint and opens his mouth, letting Larry in. Freddy immediately swirls his tongue around, and Larry does not waste a minute, pushing in another finger.

“You look so pretty with something in your mouth,” whispers Larry, and all Freddy can do is blush and suck even harder on Larry’s fingers.

After a moment, he leans back, wet fingers finding their way at Freddy’s tight entrance. Slowly, all the while maintaining a pleasant moving pressure with his other hands on Freddy’s cock, Larry pushes one finger in, then the other. The tightness and the heat enveloping his index and middle fingers make his cock twitch in anticipation, but Larry ignores it to focus on Freddy’s comfort.

Freddy is still fairly open from last night but not as open as Larry wants. It does make it easier for Freddy to acclimate to the intrusion. Freddy’s head falls backwards on the pillow with a moan and soon, they manage to find a rhythm. After only a few moments, Freddy starts rocking back his hips to meet Larry halfway, fingers now deep inside of him.

“Freddy, God, look at you,” Larry breathes out, blinking at the other man, heart racing. Freddy looks so good, so open for him, Larry has a hard time believing his luck. 

Freddy groans and pushes himself up on his elbows. “Little pocket in my bag, there’s a bottle… Please, Larry, hurry up, I’m…”

He is not even halfway done with his sentence that Larry has delicately left him empty and is now searching through his belongings. He finds the lube and immediately, he’s right back where he was. He plants a hand on Freddy’s hip to ground him, leaving Freddy’s cock hard and aching.

Larry coats his fingers, then Freddy’s entrance, and pushes in a third finger in the process, scissoring deliciously Freddy’s tight hole. Freddy stays upright, looks at him with a burning gaze and pushes back on his fingers, daring Larry to go faster, deeper.

Larry tries not to lose control, tries to maintain a good pace, but Freddy’s impatient. Freddy wraps a hand around his leaking cock and sighs, licking his lips. Larry looks down at Freddy’s hand stroking in practiced motions, looks at the way Freddy’s cock seems to stiffen even more if possible. Larry has a hard time looking away from such a gorgeous sight, of seeing Freddy so depraved and ready for him, asking for more and more.

“Larry…” says Freddy, his voice just above a whisper, rough and needy.

Larry nods, then retreats his fingers gently. Freddy grunts as he grabs the bottle right beside him. He’s on his knees still, and feels his muscles strain as he leans back and grabs his cock, smearing lube on the tip and shaft. He gives himself a few strokes, sweat starting to break at his lower back, but he does not care. He can’t seem to breathe normally to save his life, his breaths shallow and short.

This is it. He’s got Freddy _right there_. Not even in his darkest fantasies he got to fuck Freddy. Not even at the deepest of the night he let himself think of that filthy image he has in front of him. He had always pushed it back, his senses in overload just thinking about it, too much to bear, too much to deal with.

Now… Larry can barely take his eyes away, wants to drink it all before it’s already too late. He knows he wants to take Freddy in every way possible, wants to make him feel good, wants to take care of him. He knows he wants Freddy to fuck him too, because _Freddy_ is all he wants.

Larry focuses back on the present moment, where Freddy is looking up at him with such wanting and hunger in his eyes, it makes Larry’s heart ache for him. Larry feels longing, even though Freddy is _right there_.

“Alright, alright, baby, I got you,” he says before grabbing Freddy by the ankles and pulling him closer in one easy motion, so that Freddy falls back on the bed, Larry’s cock brushing his stretched and wet hole.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Freddy whispers, his breath catching as Larry pushes in with the head of his cock.

Larry grunts and tries to control himself, but it’s so difficult, especially since Freddy seems very eager to suck him in. The pressure, the wetness, the heat… Larry looks down where he disappears into Freddy, licks his lips in front of that almost pornographic sight.

He wants more.

It’s been so long since he’s been intimate with anyone. He stops midway, bracing himself on Freddy’s thighs, but it makes them simply open wider. Freddy spreads himself even more, his hands landing on Larry’s shoulders for leverage. He can see where his shaft stretches Freddy’s hole, right at his most vulnerable spot. It makes his face burn, his mouth water.

He wants _more_.

Something snaps in Larry’s mind as he pushes in again, his whole length sliding inside Freddy until he bottoms out. He feels something primal and hungry wake up in his lower belly, his breaths coming out short and fast, his mind a blur of lust and want.

Larry lets Freddy acclimate, then, when he feels Freddy’s fingers traveling to his back, pulling him closer, he leans his hips back and fucks in Freddy in one slow hip trust, bottoming all the way again with a grunt.

“Oh- Fuck, yes, _yes_ ,” pants Freddy, scratching at Larry’s back.

Larry grabs Freddy under his knees and brings them up, then pushes down with his hands on his shoulders a little, just enough for Freddy to feel his weight on him. Larry makes sure he has enough room to breathe and wriggle out.

Freddy stays put, looking up at him. His legs are still in the air, his calves hugging Larry’s sides. Freddy arches his back and pushes down on Larry’s cock, gasping when he feels him move inside of him.

Larry fucks him slow and deliberate, his hands still on his shoulders, pushing down. Freddy’s legs encircle him, now, and his nails scratch blindly at his back.

“You’re taking it so well, baby,” murmurs Larry while pressing kisses down Freddy’s jaw. “Just for me, yes, you’re so good…”

“Larry, fuck, please, faster,” he pants in response, snapping his hips forward to meet him halfway.

Larry lets go then, his hands now in Freddy’s hair, cheek against cheek, losing himself in the pleasure of it all. He speeds up his motions, chases his pleasure while Freddy is right there with him, gasping and moaning, his mouth open and his deep, green eyes looking up in extasy. Larry tugs on his hair while pushing in, and Freddy goes willingly, exposing his throat to Larry.

Larry is obsessed, how easy it is, how pliant Freddy is under him. As soon as he guides him someway, he follows, groaning of pleasure right in Larry’s ears.

“Fuck, I love the noises you make, sweetheart” Larry grunts, his hands now firmly on Freddy’s hips, thrusting up so that Freddy’s cock is now bouncing on his hip. “You’re so perfect for me, so tight…”

Larry can’t help himself and grabs at Freddy’s leaking cock, pulls on it and roughly strokes him until Freddy is panting and moaning his name.

“Larry, I’m gonna come,” he warns, and Larry continues, does not let go until Freddy spills between his fingers, right on his stomach.

Freddy gasps, his eyes rolling in pleasure. His back arches just so and he makes such a pretty sound, Larry has a hard time not going over himself.

“You’re so good, baby, that’s it, you make me so hard,” Larry grunts as he spreads the come on Freddy’s stomach with his fingers, fascinated by the sight of Freddy still hazy with his orgasm.

Freddy comes back to his senses after a moment, breathing in slow and hot. Larry slows down for a moment, just enough time to nudge Freddy, turning him so that he ends up on all fours.

“Fuck yeah, Larry, please, please,” says Freddy, his voice hoarse, pushing back his hips towards Larry, his back curving deliciously, head on the pillow.

Larry angles himself and pushes back in, again overwhelmed by the wetness and heat. Freddy is now pushing back to meet him, bracing himself with one hand grabbing the bedframe. Larry can see his bicep tense, admires his back muscles contracting before rapidly increasing the pace.

“Oh fuck, baby, I’m close,” he says, grabbing a handful of Freddy’s ass. With his other hand he pulls at his hair to expose his throat again, and when Freddy, pliable as ever, leans back his head, Larry goes for it, encircling him with his arm, his torso right on Freddy’s back, grabbing lightly right where his collarbones and his throat meet.

Freddy shudders and grinds harder on Larry’s cock, keeping his head back. Larry sees stars, relishes in the control he has. He loves the way Freddy lets him in, how he just gives and gives.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers in Freddy’s ear. “You’re mine, Freddy, you’re so goddamn good to me, you make me lose my goddamn mind…”

Freddy moans, still high from his orgasm, undoubtably very sensitive, but still taking it, still being so very good for Larry.

“I want to come inside you, Freddy. I want to fill you up nicely, I want to make you feel even better,” breathes out Larry, still holding Freddy’s throat, pressing down ever so slightly.

Freddy nods, eyes fluttering, his cheeks a perfect shade of red. With a trembling hand, the other still bracing him on the bedframe, Freddy grabs his ass and spreads himself even more, while Larry lets go of his throat and holds onto Freddy’s arm, pulling at the same time he fucks him deep, and filthy, and satisfying.

He comes shortly after that, gasping and half collapsing on Freddy’s back. It hits him fast and hard, like lightning, and it spreads all over his body, radiating, until it leaves him panting and boneless.

Carefully, he pulls out his softening cock out of Freddy, dragging his come in the process to his entrance. Freddy stays ass up and face down for a little while, letting Larry’s hot come slowly slide down his inner thigh. Larry, for the life of him, can’t look away.

“Oh- Freddy, _Jesus_ , that’s…” Larry says, kneeling back on his heels, his head spinning with the afterglow.

Freddy looks sacrilegious, down right sinful, panting and catching his breath, his body shivering.

Freddy finally rolls and lies down on his side. His deep green eyes are relaxed, glazed over, content. Larry immediately shuffles over, not caring for the stickiness or the smell of sex on their skin. He pulls Freddy close so that his chin is resting on the top of Freddy’s head, then pets his hair slowly, lovingly.

They stay like this for a while, comfortable and numb, until Larry is close to falling back asleep. Suddenly, Freddy moves below him.

“C’mon, let’s take a shower,” he says, kissing Larry right on the chin and getting up.

Larry looks at him walk away, shamelessly admiring the view, trying to make sense of what just happened. After a minute, he follows.




The water pressure under the shower is fairly decent. They huddle up close, Freddy already under the stream, hot water splashing down his torso. Freddy looks at Larry, suddenly looking very shy. Larry steps in, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

They let the water fall on them for a while, Larry’s hands sliding down Freddy’s back, drawing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Freddy kisses him deep, closing his eyes, and Larry tastes him, swiping his tongue on his lips.

Freddy opens up and they lazily let their lips and tongues slide on each other, circling, pushing back to taste even more. Larry can feel Freddy’s cock come back to life, twitching in interest. Forgetting his bad knees, Larry leans back, breaking the kiss, and kneels in front of Freddy. He wants to make him feel good, as good as he made Larry feel earlier.

The stream is hitting Freddy’s back, splashing at Larry’s kneecaps in a relaxing, repetitive sound. He nudges Freddy’s hips, grabbing at his thighs and wasting no time to touch Freddy’s pelvis, teasing with his fingers at Freddy’s base, encircling it.

He kisses Freddy’s shaft as steam builds up around them and the water keeps crashing down. Freddy gasps when he feels Larry’s lips on him. He cups tenderly at Larry’s cheek from above, brushing a thumb right over his right cheekbone, then goes up to Larry’s wet hair, grabbing a handful of dark curls.

Larry can see him through the steam, his torso glistening with hot water, falling down between his thighs, a million little rivers sliding down his body.

Larry works slowly, taking his time again to taste Freddy. He teases the very top of his cock with his tongue, lapping and sucking at the head, his lips stretching around it, letting saliva coat the sensitive area. He firmly grabs the base and begins to suck, hollowing his cheeks; first the head, then the shaft, until he finally pushes Freddy’s cock deep in his mouth.

Freddy looks right at him the whole time, his lips slightly parted, like he still can’t believe what he is seeing. Larry moves his head up and down with a constant rhythm, and, with his other hand, begins to stroke the base.

Little broken moans begin to come up Freddy’s throat, his knees buckling a little as Larry speeds up and apply more and more pressure with his hand. Larry looks up from underneath his eyelashes at Freddy and is delighted by the truly depraved sight of Freddy right above him, completely disheveled.

His tongue wets his lips despite the steady stream of warm water falling down the nape of his neck. His blonde hair is also wet, falling into his eyes. Freddy’s lean chest is heaving, his eyes are open wide. He still has one hand in Larry hair, the other is holding the shower wall for support, fingers spread and tense.

After a while, Larry can see his chest raising and falling more rapidly, his eyes burning with desire. He lets go of the base of his cock, then grabs Freddy’s ass with his hands and takes him even deeper, faster, hitting at the back of his throat. He’s not the most experienced, but he’s getting Freddy there, trying to see what Freddy responds to the most, cataloguing his reactions for later.

“Larry, I’m close,” Freddy pants, and Larry can’t help but feel stupidly proud by the short amount of time it took to get him there.

Freddy comes with a shudder down Larry’s throat, Larry swallowing as he goes. Freddy has to hold himself up while he comes down from his orgasm, his little pants echoing delightfully in the bathroom. Larry waits and sucks him slow, milking his orgasm until Freddy taps on his shoulder, completely spent.

Freddy gives him a hand and pulls Larry to his feet, careful not to slip.

“Larry, I…” Freddy starts to say, but Larry kisses him deeply before he can say anything that would make _this_ between them crumble.

“Let’s get you washed up,” Larry says after the kiss, softly smiling.

Freddy nods, letting his head fall back. Larry grabs the soap and gently rubs it on Freddy’s shoulders, stepping in his space to wash him carefully. He rubs his hand on the bar and puts it down, then lets his fingers explore Freddy’s body, washing him as he goes.

He takes great care of washing Freddy’s back, pushing him below the stream so Freddy can enjoy the hot relaxing water. When he slides his hand down Freddy’s back, he finds his ass and rubs each cheek with soap. He spreads his ass cheeks, circling his sensitive hole with one teasing finger. Freddy moans and bites him lightly on the shoulder.

“What? I’m just washing everywhere,” says Larry, grinning.

Freddy grins back, his green eyes vibrant under the bathroom neon.

“My turn,” he says when he is all clean, and Larry nods, taken aback.

They exchange places, Larry sighing with ease as the hot steady stream of water hits his shoulders and back. Freddy rubs the bar of soap on him, on his own hands, and caresses him all over. 

Their silence is only broken by the water hitting the bottom of the shower. Larry’s heart is beating hard in his ribcage. It’s as if this moment is even more intimate than the ones before, with just _them_ and no other distractions. Freddy takes his time, squeezing all the parts Larry does not like about himself, and when he looks at him, all Larry sees is something close to adoration.

He thinks he must be looking at Freddy the same.




They dry themselves and get dressed. Larry is surprised to find it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning.

“We still got time for breakfast. Come on, I’m starving,” he says, patting his pants for the car keys.

They go back to one of the dinners their discovered while walking around the city, what seems an eternity ago. They eat in agreeable silence, exchanging complicit looks above their plates.

Larry feels ridiculous. Nobody knows he had sex with Freddy. Nobody knows they were a panting, hot mess just an hour ago. Still, he’s under the impression that every other costumer present knows what they did. Larry observes everyone, trying to remove the guilty expression on his face already.

Freddy, oblivious, is eating his eggs while reading the local paper, and when the waitress comes to refill their coffee cups, Larry breathes in deep, waiting for her to confront them. She does not, simply fills up their coffee cups and walks away.

Larry feels ready to scream. Surely, they must know… How Larry was almost losing his mind over how perfect Freddy was, pliant and vulnerable under him. How one day ago, they made a choice, how they chose _each other_. Surely everyone must see how Freddy looks thoroughly fucked out of his mind, eating away his plate like it’s the first meal he is eating in a long time.

Surely, they must look at Larry and think how absurd it is, this younger, beautiful man leaving everything behind for _him_. Surely, he himself looks completely taken by the man in front of him, enamoured enough to admit it even to himself.

A few minutes go by. No one comes to confront them. No one knows anything.

For an onlooker, they must look like two friends, innocently having a nice meal. Larry’s lower stomach twists pleasantly. He always liked having dirty secrets. He tries to push his doubts out of his mind. It is hard to do, but Larry tries, especially when Freddy keeps looking up and smiling, mouth full of blueberry pancakes. He wants to make this works more than anything, whatever _this_ is.

After they are done eating, Freddy leans in close and, stirring his third cup of coffee, asks the question that has been slowly eating away at Larry since they kissed in the motel parking lot.

“What now?”

Larry puts down his cup on the table. “We run.”

Freddy frowns. “Run? Where?”

“Florida. Mexico. I don’t mind, as long as there’s a beach.”

Freddy nods, thinking. “That does sounds nice. What about the deals?”

“Fuck the deals. We take the money Joe owes us and we start new.”

Freddy frowns even more. “Take the money and run? Won’t he come after us? I mean, you know the guy better than I do. Would he come after his money?”

Larry takes another sip of coffee, pondering. The answer is pretty clear.

Of course, Joe would come after them, especially if he finds out that Freddy was a cop this whole time. That fact must absolutely stay secret. Freddy already burnt the proof, so they should be good.

If they do skip the other drug deals, they might also get some local repercussions through bodyguards and whatnot. Larry also knows that Joe Cabot is older than him, and sometimes, age makes you forgive things that a younger, hot tempered man would not. They might stand a chance if they are very, very careful. Lucky for them, Larry is always very, very careful.

Larry does not want to scare Freddy, but he figures he owes him the truth.

“Yes, he would come after us,” sighs Larry. “But, I don’t think he would be able to find us.”

Freddy leans back, toying with a sugar packet. Larry gets hit with a vivid _déjà vu_.

“All I know is that I want to be with you,” softly says Freddy after a moment, looking up at Larry. “I’ve made my choice a long time ago. If we need to hide, we’ll hide, I really don’t care.”

Larry’s heart skips a beat. “Freddy… I’m not gonna to ask you to do that. We could finish the jobs and fly back to LA. Figure it out there.”

Freddy shakes his head, crumpling the sugar packet in a decisive motion.

“No. We’re already halfway across the country. I’m not going back. We’ll think of something.”

They look at each other, and Larry nods, lost again in Freddy’s intense gaze. Freddy lets go of the sugar. On the table, between their cups of coffee, their fingers brush, a ghost of a touch.

“As long as I’m with you,” says Larry, echoing Freddy. “As long as were together.”




Nice Guy Eddie barges in his father’s office around two in the afternoon, not caring to knock. He’s sweaty, panicked, and he forgot his coffee this morning, which makes him even more of a shit head that usual.

He sees his dad on the phone, sees the pissed off frown take over his father’s face. He does not care, pacing in the office until his energy level is suddenly too high and he collapses.

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” he says, sitting heavily with a sigh in one of the chairs in front of his father’s imposing desk.

Joe Cabot is still on the phone, looking as pissed as ever. He raises pointedly his index at his son.

“I understand. Hmm. Alright, I’ll call you back.”

He hangs up, still holding his index in front of his son, but this time, he points it directly at him.

_“You,”_ he spits, “don’t walk in my office like you own the place, you little-”

“It’s about Larry Dimmick,” interrupts Eddie.

His father stops mid sentence, waiting. His hand falls back on his arm rest. “So? What about him?”

“He… _They_ disappeared.”

Cabot senior scowls. “What? What do you mean they _disappeared_?”

Eddie sighs again and scratches at his chin. It has been a long couple of weeks.

“We sent word to everyone, like you said. The drugs were sent via an external local source, so at least we know they went in the hands of the right people. Shouldn’t have any problems in that area, at least.”

Joe Cabot nods. Larry was always a professional. He stands up and walks towards the minibar he keeps in his office.

“What about the money?”

“Half of what they earned was in your secret account in Texas,” Eddie says. “The other half…”

Joe Cabot stops, his hand on the whiskey bottle. “The other half what?”

“It disappeared with them.”

Joe shakes his head, his mouth a thin, annoyed line. Of course. He resumes fixing himself a drink and decides that ice cubes are not a viable option for today. He pours the amber liquid in the short glass and twirls it around a little.

He sits back down and Eddie looks at him expectedly.

“It’s been what, six weeks?” he asks, twisting his chair so that it faces his son.

Eddie nods.

“And nobody has seen them. No one knows where they are,” says Joe, taking a sip.

Eddie shakes his head. “No. We’ve searched everywhere, the motels, the local restaurants… After Louisiana, it’s as if… It’s as if they never even existed. They could be in Europe, for all we know, in space, even. They could be both dead in a ditch. Somewhere.”

“But they still got half my money with them,” Joe Cabot groans, putting down his drink on his desk.

Eddie shrugs. “Listen, I searched for six fucking weeks in the humid heat, knocking on doors and whatnot. I’m fucking tired to be running around with no clues or leads. We’ll just book a few extra jobs here and there and we’ll make the money back in no time.”

Eddie leans back in the chair, a hand tugging at his shaggy hair. “Finding Larry fucking Dimmick, on the other hand… Might as well search for Bigfoot, or the fucking Lockness monster, and even then, you’d probably have more chance to find ‘em than him.”

The two Cabot stay silent, contemplating how two people just have seem to… Fall off the surface of the planet.

“If he doesn’t wanna be found, it might have been the last time we saw him until… I don’t know, until he decides to come back. _If_ he decides to come back,” adds Eddie.

Joe Cabot hums, then gulps down a bigger swallow of whiskey. “That fucker. He was my best field guy, that man.”

Eddie leans back in, his elbows on the desk, talking faster.

“You don’t think it’s the kid, do you? Why would they _both_ disappear? Do you think he stole the money and killed Dimmick?”

Joe Cabot shakes his head, grinning. “You are so fucking slow, sometimes I wonder if I’m really your father.”

Eddie scowls. “Hey! Come on!”

Joe laughs without malice and finishes his drink. “I guess we’ll keep an eye out. But if they disappeared, nothing we can really do about it.”

Eddie grumbles as he stands up. “Whatever. Who cares about this lowlife criminal anyway?”

Eddie closes the door on his way out. Joe Cabot is left alone with his thoughts.

He thinks about the hundred of thousands anonymous motels everywhere in the country. On the continent, even. He thinks about the blue Honda, how easy it would be to disappear into a sea of nothingness, no responsibilities, no pressure, no nothing.

In this line of work, you either work long enough to run things and die, or… you die before that. There’s no retirement plan. No end to this goddamn awful, stressful life.

Joe Cabot gets up to fix himself another drink, this time pouring the equivalent of a shot in his glass.

“You got out, you son of a bitch,” he says to his empty office. “Good for you, motherfucker, and I hope I’ll never see you again.”

He downs his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left! Thank you for your comments/kudos, again, they are so very deeply appreciated!! <333


	8. FLORIDA

**SOMEWHERE IN THE FLORIDA KEYS**

**ONE YEAR LATER**




“Ten bucks says I can do it.”

Larry scoffs.

“Ten bucks says you can’t, kid,” he smirks, teasing.

Freddy rolls his eyes, but grins. He concentrates on his objective, arms straight, legs apart, knees slightly bent. He takes his shot.

The golf ball rolls directly into the hole.

“Yes! There it is!” Freddy whoops, raising his golf club in the air.

“Alright, alright, you _are_ the mini golf champion, good job,” Larry says, chuckling.

Freddy bumps him while he walks to grab is hot pink golf ball. “You’re just jealous.”

Larry nods. “Well, yeah, duh kid. I’m _very_ jealous of your talent.”

They move onto the last hole. Larry squints at his watch. It’s almost seven o’clock and they haven’t had dinner yet. His stomach is starting to grumble, and he knows Freddy must be getting hungry too.

“What do you say we grab a burger and head on home?” he says, putting down his ball on the ground.

He aims and swings gently his putter. The ball ricochets and stops a few inches away from its goal.

“Sounds good to me,” Freddy says, smiling.

They finish their game, Freddy winning by a few points, and get to their favorite burger joint. Freddy drives, an old convertible they bought in exchange for the Honda somehwere between Louisiana and Alabama. 

When they get home, the sun is slowly setting, coloring their cozy bungalow with warm tones, vivid oranges and crimson reds. Larry takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second. All he can see behind his closed eyes are shadows of Freddy and the house. 

2\. 

They choose this location about year ago for its security, deep enough in the Florida Keys so that nobody would even think about looking for them here. Larry rents the place under a fake name, and forges a signature like it is no big deal in front of Freddy’s stressful gaze.

Settling in is… Difficult at first. Larry spends most of his nights waking up constantly, certain he heard someone downstairs coming for them. When he does sleep, he dreams of closed doors, of bloody fists against Freddy’s face and of car crashes.

Freddy is no better. Sometimes, Larry catches him with a thousand-yards stare, worrying his lip. Larry comes behind him and hugs his sides, delicately kissing him on the sensitive spot right below his ear, again and again until Freddy would come back to him and turn around. Larry always then kisses him right on the mouth, kisses his guilt away until they are both panting and thinking of little else than each other.

They make due, learning to live together, which, at least, is easy enough. All this time on the road, sharing rooms and beds, it feels right from the moment they choose their first piece of furniture together (an old dresser where Freddy puts odd trinkets he finds at the local souvenir shop).

The money they kept is more than enough for both of them, but after a few weeks, Freddy takes a part-time job, taking care of the animals at the local shelter. He often comes home covered in fur and scratches, but with a feeling of fulfilment that makes him smile like crazy.

Larry spends the days he has alone lying on the beach, tanning and reading. It feels to Larry like he has a millennial worth of reading to catch up, but it is not something that discourages him, on the contrary. He loves flipping through the pages, putting down one book only to begin another. Sometimes, he makes Freddy read a particularly interesting one so that they can talk about it, the evenings filled with animated discussions that always end up either in laugher or passionate making out. Sometimes both. 

Mostly, though, they are together, joined at the hips. Larry loves the simplicity of it all. He loves how they can stay silent for hours on end, simply reading, or watching the sun set, hand in hand. They often catch a movie at their local theater, or go for long walks on the beach. When they feel far away enough, they strip naked and run to the ocean, splashing and laughing, forgetting everything around them. They often times end up lying on the beach, tired but happy, sand sticking everywhere, sun drenched, kissing like they are two movie stars in the black and white films, waves crashing gently at their feet.

It’s paradise.

Larry never really experienced this kind of peace. It is a welcome change. He loves not having to worry about who might be waiting for him at each corner, or if he might die on the next job. He can simply enjoy every day with Freddy, relishing in how they feel more and more at home with each other, how they can understand one another with just a look.

Freddy’s hair is now pale blonde, and his eyes seem unnaturally green, taking on the color from the luxuriant flora of the Keys. Larry has, for his part, given up trying to tame his curls and lets them grow, rocking a look he didn’t have since the 70’s. They always wear comfortable clothes, Larry still favoriting Hawaiian shirts. Their suits are sagely hanging in their closets, along with their guns, safely hidden in a safe. They are the only remains of their old life, and Larry likes that even more. 

3\. 

Larry does not want this paradise to end, but he has a plan in mind. He though about it for a few weeks, now, and tonight seems like the perfect night to put his plan into action. His heart swells at the thought, but he pushes his fears down, anxious that if he thinks too hard about it, he will have cold feet and chicken out.

Larry takes it in, the setting sun, Freddy unlocking their door, takeout bags in the other hand. The familiarity of the scene makes him smile, a soft smile just for him. He blinks back to reality when Freddy motions for him to enter, and he does, welcomed by the God-given gift that is AC.

They take their takeout bags to the living room. Freddy plops down in front of the television, choosing the movie for the night. He settles on Indiana Jones, a favorite of them both. Larry does not pay attention to the action, his mind elsewhere. He absolutely wants to talk to Freddy before he truly goes crazy.

“Let’s go outside,” he suggests when their burgers have been devoured and the movie, halfway done. “The sun must be right on the edge of the ocean.”

Freddy nods. “Sure. Let’s go sit on the back porch for awhile.”

They walk to their porch, settling in their favorite spot, an old bench that Larry sanded and painted a nice shade of blue. Freddy puts his head on Larry’s shoulder, sighing of ease. Larry can smell Freddy's shampoo and when he leans in, the softeness of his hair caresses his cheek. The familiarity of the gesture gives Larry the courage to speak up, to finally let Freddy on what is going on in his head.

“Freddy,” he says, his voice wavering. “Freddy, what do you say we go on a trip together?”

Freddy hums in surprise, sitting up. Larry turns to face him, their knees touching.

“A trip? To where?” Freddy asks, turning his puzzled face towards Larry.

Larry shrugs, his palms sweaty. “Anywhere. I feel like we only scratched the surface during our last trip. I want to see more, to visit, to… I don’t care honestly, as long as I see it with you.”

Freddy frowns, clearly reviewing in his head the idea in minute details.

Larry waits. The silence is almost too much to bear. He had hesitated for few weeks before asking Freddy, afraid of being shut down, but now that it is out in the open, he is starving for an answer, his foot tapping lightly on the ground. 

They are very happy in the Keys, Larry didn’t want Freddy to think the contrary, but… In all his life, he had only seen part of the States, and none of Mexico. Hell, he’d never even been to Canada before. He wanted more than anything to take it all in, especially now that he had the _time_. And the companionship, too. He loved Florida, but couldn’t shake the feeling that they had things to see, memories to make. He wants to see it all with Freddy, wants to share everything with him. Besides, it is not like their house would go away. 

Slowly, a smile forms on Freddy’s lips. “You mean it would be like a road trip? Alright, where would we go?”

Larry smiles back, relieved that Freddy understood so easily.

“Where would you want to go, kid?” he asks, feeling part of his stress leaving him.

“I’ve never seen Mexico… Or Chicago, for all that matters. Oh- and there was the UFO museum back in New Mexico we never got to see,” Freddy adds, teasing.

Larry laughs fondly. 

“Alright, anywhere you want.”

Freddy nods, and Larry can see he’s getting excited by the idea. A sparkle lights up his eyes. Larry could leave it at that, but he wants to go all the way with what he had in mind. 

Heart racing, he slides his hand in his pants' pocket, and gets out two silver rings, simple in design, but sturdy in the making. He holds them in his palm. Freddy’s face turns suddenly very serious, a small gasp escaping his lips.

“Larry…” he whispers, his eyes flickering back to Larry and the rings. 

Larry looks right at him, right at his deep, green eyes. He needs Freddy to understand, to truly know how Larry loves him completely and irrevocably. How he would die for him, plain and simple.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, you know how I feel about that, but this…” Larry starts, extending a trembling hand towards Freddy.

Freddy immediately gives him is left hand; his face is still unreadable, his gaze, intense. Suddenly, everything seems to vanish around Larry. He can only see Freddy in front of him, with his gold freckled green eyes, his messy blonde hair and his full lips. He can only see the grave look Freddy is giving him, patiently waiting for Larry to finish his thought.

“This is not that. It’s… More than that,” continues Larry.

He slides the ring on Freddy’s annular finger. It fits perfectly. Then, he slides the other ring on his own finger. Larry holds onto Freddy’s hands, squeezing.

“ _This_ is a promise. No matter what, I'm yours. It’s you and me, kid. If you want to, of course,” he adds. 

Larry feels so nervous he can only hear his own heart beating in his ears. Freddy says nothing, looks down at their hands where the two rings reflect beams of white in the last light of the day. After what seems an eternity, he sighs deeply and shakes his head like he can’t believe it.

“You motherfucker, you’re gonna make me cry,” he shakily laughs. "Yes, of course I want to, Larry, Jesus... I've never felt anything like that before, for anybody." 

All of Larry’s worry escapes him in a second, leaving him boneless and happier than he has ever been.

Freddy finally lurches forward, kissing him like the first time, kissing him like he would never have the chance again. He fists the helm of his shirt and pulls him in, leaving Larry breathless and hungry, always hungry for his Freddy. 

When they finally part, they stay close, their foreheads touching. They smile at each other, Larry giddy with an emotion he is not afraid to name anymore.

“You and me no matter what,” echoes Freddy, brushing his thumb on Larry’s cheek.

Larry grabs at Freddy’s face, and goes in for one more kiss.

** THE END **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last chapter! Waaah! I had such a blast writing this story, and I want to thank all of you for reading it! <3 Your support means the world to me. I hope you didn't find the ending too cheesy, (because I did, but it made me feel good writing it!!!)  
> Don't forget to comment/kudos (yes, even if you're reading this story five years from now!!) it's always a pleasure to read your thoughts!  
> I'll see you around <3 (I'm jim-bones-spock on tumblr, come and say hi!)


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